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THE BIG HEART 

A Present-Day Adventure— 

Without a Moral 


BY 


JOHN G. BRANDON 

#• 



NEW YORK 
BRENTANO’S 

Publishers 




Copyright, 1923, by 
BRENTANO’S, Inc. 

All Bights Reserved 



r 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OB' AMERICA 
VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY 

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 


SEP -6 1923 


t Vy& *v 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. In which Virtue is Its Own Reward . . . 

II. In which Virtue Pays a Considerably Better 
Dividend. 

III. Which Introduces Another Magnate and 

His Family; and a Shock for Mr. 
Courtenay. 

IV. In which Mr. Courtenay Makes a Good 

Friend—and a Bad Enemy. 

V. Mr. Courtenay, Losing Heavily on the 
Swings, Gains on the Roundabouts . 

VI. Echoes an Old Story and Forwards a New . 

VII. Spodani’s Cafe da Napoli—and Myrtle . 

VIII. Which Resembles Somewhat the Fortune 
Revealed in a Lady’s Tea-cup. A Fair 
Man—Love—A Quarrel—More Love— 
Sudden Death—and a Dark Man to the 
House with Hasty News. 

IX. In which the Furtive Tuning-up of the 
Hidden Orchestra Announces that the 
Entertainment is About to Commence . 

X. In which the Honourable Bill Sees a Vi¬ 
sion—and “Acts Accordin’.” .... 

XI. “Just before the Battle, Mother.” . 

XII. First Blood. 

XIII. “Mr. Oakley” Moves in Select Circles . 

XIV. Mr. Courtenay Sallies Forth. 

XV. Mr. Clamper Encounters an Old Acquaint¬ 
ance . 


PAGE 

9 
17 

27 

37 

46 

55 

64 


72 

87 

97 

109 

123 

135 

146 

160 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVI. Mr. Dargan Has a Busy Evening . . . . 1 77 

XVII. Mr. Levigne Uses the Spur. *93 

XVIII. Mr. Dobson Plunges into the Vortex . . . 206 

XIX. A Conference a Deux.220 

XX. Mr. Jeremiah McGraw Exhibits His Chame¬ 
leon-like Qualities.235 

XXI. Wherein Mr. McGraw Speaks His Little 

Piece.249 

XXII. Honours Even. 262 

XXIII. “Bull” Dargan Forces Mr. Dobson’s Hand— 

and Scores.276 

XXIV. Contains a Warning, and Several Quite Un¬ 
expected Happenings.288 

XXV. Mr. Percival Bowes-Chevington Goes up One 302 

XXVI. Mr. Isidore Abrahams Confounds His De¬ 
tractors and Proves His Quality . . .314 

XXVII. Exit Jeremiah McGraw Esquire .... 323 

XXVIII. Which Puts, as Mr. Bowes-Chevington 

Would Remark, the Bally Lid on It . . 336 

Epilogue 


• 350 








“’Tis the clever ones—the Big Brains— 
that rule the world.” 

“Maybe; but it’s the damned fools—the Big Hearts 
that make it fit to live in.” 


The Dramatic and Cinema Rights of this Book are reserved 
entirely by the Author. 


/ 


THE BIG HEART 


CHAPTER I: 


In which Virtue is its own Reward 


M R. PATRICK D’ALROY COURTENAY—ex- 
Captain R.F.A.—betook himself up Ludgate 
Hill at a good brisk business-like pace. “Business-like” 
was precisely the adjective best suited to Mr. Courtenay’s 
progression; for he was abroad that morning, bright and 
early, upon what he was discovering to be the most elu¬ 
sive of all human goals, the quest of a job. 

And a very pleasant, wholesome-looking picture Mr. 
Courtenay made, as he steered his way up the busy Hill. 
Smart and well set-up, with the lithe and graceful swing 
of the athlete, and a knack of wearing clothes that made 
his well-worn old serge look many degrees newer than it 
really was; and a general air of alert capability about his 
good-looking face that attracted instantly. 

He was a handsome chap, Mr. Patrick—divil a doubt 
of it; and there were not many of the busy little City 
misses who hadn’t a second glance for the good-looking 
Irishman as he brushed past, towering over them, on his 
passage up the street. 

But two days agone had Patrick answered a rather 
ambiguous advertisement in the columns of The Times 
that read as follows: 


“Wanted, for work of a very special, delicate, and confidential 
nature, a man of between thirty and forty years of age. Must 
be a gentleman—of some social standing. Ex-officer preferred; 
one accustomed to executive work and quick decisive action. 

9 



10 


THE BIG HEART 


Handsome remuneration and permanent employment for suit¬ 
able man. Apply, with full credentials, and enclosing photo¬ 
graph where possible, to ‘X. Y. Z./ c/o The Times. 


In response to his hurried application, Mr. Patrick 
Courtenay had but that morning received an epistle re¬ 
questing him to call at the office of Mr. John Hammer- 
den at an address in Lombard Street, at ten o’clock punc¬ 
tually (the hour was heavily underlined), present his 
card, and the mysterious “X. Y. Z.” would interview him. 

So here he was, sailing towards the rendezvous at 
twenty minutes to the hour appointed; rehearsing an en¬ 
tirely imaginary conversation between himself and the 
mysterious “X. Y. Z.” and hoping to the high heavens 
that this did not come unstuck, as so many other “pos¬ 
sibles” had done before. 

For he needed “X. Y. Z.” ’s job; and needed it sorely. 

The qualifications it demanded he could fit to a hair— 
if ever living man could. He knew it. He was every¬ 
thing the advertisement called for. As for the delicate 
and confidential part of it, find the man that could keep 
the still tongue in his head that he could—an oyster was 
a voluble animal beside him. And delicate! Ah, 
well ... he was an Irishman; and that should be guar¬ 
antee enough for annybody. When it came to executive 
work and the decisive action side of it—his war records 
could vouch for that. His D.S.O. and M.C. might lend 
a hand to a poor divil there—or they might not. Ye 
never could tell—as Mr. Shaw says. 

And Mr. John Hammerden? That great financial op¬ 
erator who pulled the little unseen wires, and made the 
money-markets jump or fall in more countries than one? 
What had “X. Y. Z.” to be doing with a man—a mag¬ 
nate like that? 

These things revolved in the well-groomed head of Mr. 


11 


VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD 

Courtenay, until a sudden happening in St. Paul’s Church¬ 
yard claimed his instant attention, and drove them into 
thin air. 

There, in the busiest, most traffic-laden portion of that 
semi-circular thoroughfare, was a little yellow-painted 
two-seater car stuck and jammed hard and fast) refusing 
to be coaxed, blandished or bullied into budging one inch 
from the entirely unpropitious position it had selected to 
go on strike in. An obdurate, pig-headed little divil of a 
car that was out for blood! 

In it, her little face the picture of agonized despair as 
she struggled in among the refractory levers, was the 
loveliest, the most absolutely distractingly beautiful girl 
that he had ever laid eyes upon. 

There she was! Policemen ordered her—bullied her; 
van-men swore at her; gentlemen of the motor-omnibuses 
gave her facetious advice, fore and aft, as they swung 
round the mulish little yellow vehicle; newsboys chi-iked 
her; stout old gentlemen glared at her as though she were 
doing them some personal injury; and the culminating 
jibe came from the driver of a motor-hearse who gallantly 
offered her a tow. 

Her little hands trembled in among the gears; the tears 
welled into her beautiful distraught eyes, and then, look¬ 
ing up with a violent start at some one towering over her, 
she beheld the engaging countenance of Mr. Patrick 
Courtenay, who, hat in hand, stood smiling before 
her. 

“Pm afraid,” said Mr. Patrick with great deference, 
“ye’re in trouble.” 

The little lady wrung her hands. 

“I don’t know what to do! It’s never done this be¬ 
fore.” 

“Oh, I know them,” said Mr. Patrick, tapping the 
glittering bonnet indulgently with his walking-stick. “I 


12 THE BIG HEART 

know them. They’re demons to go, and divils to stop. 
Leave it to me.” 

Relieving himself of his hat and stick, which he handed 
to the little lady (who was uttering fervid expressions 
of gratitude), and divesting himself of his coat, which 
he flung carelessly across the door with the utmost con¬ 
tempt for all curious onlookers, he dived cheerfully into 
the oily bowels of the yellow Juggernaut like a man 
pre-determined to conquest. 

And of “X. Y. Z.,” waiting in the office of the great 
financier for the felicity of Mr. Courtenay’s company— 
What? To the divil with him—he could wait. Was not 
the peerless little beauty in dire necessity? She was. 
And could not he, Paddy Courtenay, rescue her from her 
plight? He could. Very well, then. “X. Y. Z.” must 
possess himself in patience, though the very stones of 
Lombard Street cry out; or betake himself—along with 
his other three-and-twenty brothers of the Alphabet—to 
the deuce. “ ’Twould not be a long job annyhow, and 
if it was . . .” 

Such was the temper of the gentleman when engaged 
in the business of squire aux dames. 

Now as his coat fell across the door of the two-seater 
where it was cast haphazard, Mr. Courtenay’s well-worn 
and (alack) thinly lined pocket-book fell from it to the 
mat at the lovely little lady’s feet. Out of it slipped a 
roughly-cut advertisement from The Times of two days 
previous. 

The first she lifted and restored surreptitiously: the 
second she did not see until some moments later; 
when her eye chancing upon it, she picked it up and won- 
deringly read it. 

With a tiny furrow between her beautiful hazel eyes, 
she surveyed as much of the broad back of her deliverer 
as was visible out of the infernal regions of the refractory 


VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD 


13 


yellow car; and covertly replaced the cutting in the pocket- 
book in his coat. 

She could hear his voice—and very pleasantly it struck 
upon her ears with its touch of the “come-ether” in it— 
wheedling and cajoling the obstreperous parts, as though 
addressing some refractory young female who had to be 
blarneyed into the performance of her manifest duty. 

Mr. Patrick looked up with his engaging grin. 

“Try her now,” he ordered. 

The little lady pressed her self-starter, and the engines 
thrummed and buzzed as though they had never heard of 
such a thing as a breakdown since first they came out of 
the workshop. 

“There you are now!” exclaimed Mr. Courtenay tri¬ 
umphantly, as he replaced the bonnet. 

“I can never thank you sufficiently,” urged the little 
lady earnestly. 

“Ah, ’tis nothing at all now,” responded he deprecat- 
ingly; finding a piece of waste and wiping as much of the 
oil as possible from his hands. The cuffs of his once 
spotless shirt would not bear investigation; he saw her 
glance at them in dismay, and hurriedly flung on his coat 
to hide them from view. 

“I am afraid,” she began, still gazing in their oil- 
bedraggled direction, “that you’ve ruined ...” 

Mr. Courtenay swiftly shuffled them still further up 
his arms. 

“Now, his all right,” he interrupted, “they’ll do.” 

And at that moment was chimed out in deep and solemn 
tones the hour of ten. 

Mr. Courtenay eyed his fair companion in some dismay. 

“Oh, lord!” he gasped. “Old ‘X. Y. Z.M I’d forgot¬ 
ten all about him. I should have been there by ten 
o’clock!” 

“Couldn’t I drop you anywhere?” inquired the little 


14 


THE BIG HEART 


lady eagerly. "If you drive, we can go very quickly.” 

Mr. Patrick breathed a small sigh of relief. 

“If it wouldn’t inconvenience you, I’d be awfully grate¬ 
ful. ’Tis in the City I have to be by ten o’clock. It said 
‘punctually’; so I suppose I’ve lost the job before I’ve 
got it. Well,” he sighed philosophically, “ ’tis all in the 
day’s work—an’ it couldn’t be helped annyhow!” 

“I know the City fairly well,” said the little lady tenta¬ 
tively, as they sped towards the Bank. “What part is 
is that you’re looking for?” 

“Lombard Street,” answered Patrick, shaving the bon¬ 
net of a motor-’bus by an inch or a fraction thereof; 
and then informing her of the address. 

“I believe,” said the little lady thoughtfully, the tiny 
furrow again appearing between her brows, “I believe I 
know where that is.” 

“Splendid!” said Mr. Courtenay enthusiastically. 

He turned to find his beautiful companion watching 
him very curiously. She smiled and blushed—a little 
disconcerted. Mr. Courtenay obliged with his most illu¬ 
minating grin. 

“Did you—did you want the—the job so very badly?” 
she asked gently. 

“I did that!” replied Mr. Courtenay seriously. He 
dragged the cutting from his pocket with his disengaged 
hand and passed it to her, narrowly averting sudden death 
to them as a consequence. “That’s what ye have to be,” 
he informed her. 

“Oh!” observed the little lady, reading it carefully for 
the second time. “And are you?” 

“I am,” answered Mr. Courtenay with exceeding cheer¬ 
fulness. “And if I’m not, I have to make old ‘X. Y. Z.’ 
believe I am.” 

Outside the door of some exceedingly palatial offices 
she signalled to stop: Mr. Courtenay pulled up, and 


VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD 15 


stepped out on to the pavement. He took off his hat, and 
stood holding her tiny hand in his. 

“I do hope you'll have luck,” she whispered shyly. 
“Somehow I feel sure you will.” 

“If I never have it again,” said Patrick D’Alroy with 
true Irish impressiveness, “I have it now. Won’t you 
tell me who I’m speaking to? My name is Patrick D’Al¬ 
roy Courtenay; but I’m called Paddy—by my friends,” 
he supplemented wistfully; almost entreatingly. 

The little lady pondered a moment. “No-o,” she an¬ 
swered thoughtfully. “I don't think I’d better.” 

The expression of acute disappointment that passed 
over his face possibly urged her to soften the blow. 
“Not just at present anyhow,” she added quickly. “I 
know that sounds horribly ungrateful; but I will next 
time.” 

“How d’ye know there’ll be anny next time?” 

“Oh, I'm quite sure of that,” she assured him brightly. 
“Quite.” 

“I wish I were,” responded Mr. Courtenay gloomily. 
“Good-bye.” 

“Au revoir,” said she; “and good luck,—Paddy.” 

He entered the doorway, and went up the stairs two at 
a time. In his mind was a vague but idiotic hope that, 
being late, he would be flung out forthwith, in time to 
renew the conversation that was uppermost in his mind. 
In any case, all the unanswerable arguments he had pre¬ 
pared to combat and demolish any objections to his ap¬ 
pointment by the fateful “X. Y. Z.” had gone—utterly 
and completely vanished. He couldn’t remember a soli¬ 
tary one of them. His head was too full of a peerless 
little beauty in a mutinous yellow car to have room for 
such matters. 

He would have been considerably surprised, not to say 
intrigued, to have witnessed the behaviour of that delec- 



16 


THE BIG HEART 


table small person immediately upon his disappearance 
through the doorway. With a quick glance at a window 
above, she hurriedly left her car, and followed very 
stealthily up the stairway after him. 

Upon the landing, of which every door in sight blazoned 
forth the name and testified mutely to the vast importance 
of Mr. John Hammerden, she selected one upon which 
was indicated in letters of menacing boldness that it was 
that magnate’s exclusive and particular sanctum. Be¬ 
low the august name, in letters of even greater menace, 
the fact was impressed that this apartment was “strictly 
private” and that there was “no admission whatever.” 

Into this sacrosanct apartment, without hesitation, 
knocking, or other formality, Mr. Courtenay’s late beauti¬ 
ful little partner in adventure vanished. 


CHAPTER II: In which Virtue Pays a considerably 
better Dividend 

T HE room into which Mr. Courtenay was ushered 
by an exceedingly gentlemanly clerk was an ex¬ 
tremely large, lofty, and ornate apartment. About it 
and around were hung the portraits in oils of certain 
worthy corpulent gentlemen, each looking as though he 
' might have amassed a vast fortune in his day; either for 
himself or other people. As Art they were not decora¬ 
tive. 

Seated about in characteristic attitudes of waiting, from 
keen alertness to tense, pre-occupied anxiety, were half- 
a-dozen men: men that could be picked with certitude out 
of a thousand for just what they were—ex-officers of 
every arm of the military service. 

It became instantly evident to Mr. Patrick Courtenay 
that not only was he in plenty of time for his appoint¬ 
ment, but also that he was by no means the only pebble 
upon “X. Y. ZD ’s mysterious and possibly roch-strewn 
beach. 

“Good mornings” were exchanged almost nervously— 
certainly distrustfully; then a faultlessly-groomed young 
gentleman of prodigious length of limb, who had been 
lounging in a chair obviously designed for a Director, 
rose leisurely and scrutinized him. He was grotesquely 
ugly, with a neck like a young bull, and a monocle deco¬ 
rating one of a pair of humorous eyes. 

“Plallo, old thing!” he exclaimed, extending a lemon- 
gloved fist that would have felled an ox. “Fancy meetin’ 
you here! It is Paddy Courtenay, isn’t it?” 

17 



18 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. Courtenay, taking the proffered fist with great cor¬ 
diality, admitted his identity. The profound ugliness of 
his accoster was beginning to jog his memory. 

“Aren’t you Blakeley?” he asked. “The Honourable 

Captain Blakeley?” 

“That’s me,” responded the ugly one. “Blakeley—Bill 
Blakeley. Blow the Honourable in this company. Fed 
with your lot one day—Festubert. Collar a pew,” he 
advised, pointing to another luxurious and unoccupied 
divan chair. 

Mr. Courtenay “collared” the “pew” indicated, also the 
proffered cigarette, and lit up. 

“I’m takin’ it you’re like the rest of us—an 
'X. Y. Z.’-er?” continued Mr. Blakeley. “Well, you’re in 
rather good company.” He waved an introductory hand 
embracing the hard-bitten-looking group. “Here’s Major 
Galbraith here, a D.S.O. Bob Rattray, D.S.O., M.C. 
Jimmy Carrington,” indicating an extremely youthful- 
looking gentleman with a neat cross of sticking-plaster 
adorning one eye. “Now, he’s the star. He’s a V.C. 
These other two gentlemen I’ve only met this morning, 
but I daresay they’ve got some pretty-pretties in that line 
about. Let’s see, you’re in our Army Ribbon Depart¬ 
ment, too, aren’t you? ’Course.—D.S.O. and M.C.” 

Mr. Patrick explained modestly that by some mistake 
he had received these honours. 

“He’s a V.C. himself,” growled Mr. Carrington. 
“Troyes Wood—and serve him darn’d well right.” 

“Shut up,” hissed the gentleman referred to; “you’ll 
lose me the blinkin’ job.” 

The Major hem’d, and turned to Mr. Courtenay. 

“Sounds rather as if it might be something—er—de¬ 
cent—something possible?” he ventured. There was a 
note of anxiety in his voice not to be mistaken. 


VIRTUE PAYS A DIVIDEND 


19 


Mr. Courtenay glanced at him quickly with a qualm of 
misgiving. 

“Well,” he answered at something of a loss, “here we 
all are, if it is. The flower of the nation. I only hope 
there’s enough job to go round.” 

“We’re all bally well sick of doing nothing,” announced 
the Honourable Mr. Blakeley. “The ad. certainly 
sounded like a sporting ‘possible/ ” 

“And I don’t suppose we’d stop at much, anny of us— 
as long as it’s honest?” observed Mr. Courtenay. 

“Honest!” ejaculated Major Galbraith, D.S.O., star¬ 
ing straight at him with a defiant twist of his mouth. 
“What the devil’s that? I’d go from here to hell and cut 
every throat on the road for twenty a week—or less. 
I’ve got a wife; and two kids at school.” 

Several of the gentlemen shook their heads and were 
understood to remark that it was a bit of a twister gen¬ 
erally. 

“Only thing I’m doubtful about is whether we’re 
respectable enough?” said Mr. Blakeley ruminatively. 

“I’ve an old grandmother with a title that I’m going 
to hurl in his teeth the minute I see him,” said Mr. 
Patrick. 

“Stout feller,” remarked Mr. Blakeley encouragingly. 

“That is,” added Patrick, “if ever I do see him.” 

“Perhaps ‘X. Y. Z/ is a woman,” hazarded the Major 
suddenly. 

This startling, though quite possible, suggestion re¬ 
ceived due consideration. 

“In which case,” decided the Honourable Mr. Blakeley 
with finality, “it’s all up with me. I’m too blinkin’ beau¬ 
tiful.” 

“I wonder,” mused Mr. Carrington, V.C., “what the 
order’ll be? Rotation—first come first served?” 


20 


THE BIG HEART 


“I’m mean enough to hope so, boys,” said the Major, 
“for I’m first. IT1 get mine over quick. I’ve two others 
to be chasing after if this is a wash-out.” 

This important point was quickly decided by the sud¬ 
den reappearance of the polite “offic e-wallah,” as Mr. 
Blakeley designated him. He made the paralysing re¬ 
quest that Mr. Patrick Courtenay would up and follow 
him forthwith. 

Mr. Patrick rose suddenly enough, but faced him with 
considerable astonishment. 

“You’re quite sure it’s Mr. Courtenay that’s wanted?” 
he gasped. “These gentlemen were all here miles before 
me.” 

“Mr. Hammerden will see Mr. Courtenay at once,” 
repeated the office-wallah firmly. 

Mr. Courtenay looked around at the group worriedly. 
“It doesn’t seem quite fair,” he began . . . 

“My dear old haricot,” broke in Mr. Blakeley, “do not 
emit such bally tosh! In you go; and let him have 
Grandmama stoutly, pop off.” 

“Best of luck,” growled the Major. “It isn’t your 
fault if the man conducts his business against all regu¬ 
lations.” 

“I’ll see you later,” whispered Mr. Courtenay; “what¬ 
ever comes of it. Think out some place where we can 
have one—for old times’ sake.” 

“Right ho!” accepted Mr. Blakeley for the squad. 

In an inner office, at a plain roll-top desk, Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay found the great man busily writing. He was a 
big fellow, this John Hammerden, of not a day more than 
forty in looks. A powerful-looking man in every way. 
A clean-cut face, with a jaw and mouth of tremendous 
determination. Written all over him, from his massive 
head with its thick crop of hair slightly tinged with grey, 
to the giant shoulders that supported it, were brains, en- 


VIRTUE PAYS A DIVIDEND 


21 


ergy and strength—strength, physically and mentally. 
Mr. Courtenay liked the looks of him. 

Over a mantel hung a picture—the enlargement of an 
old photograph obviously taken by some itinerant artist 
—that arrested his wandering and appraising eye. It 
had been taken, to judge by the background of pines and 
wild canyons, in the Western States of America, or per¬ 
haps Alaska in the summer, and showed the little shaft- 
head of a mining claim. Standing by it in clay-stained 
overalls, nude from the waist up, but for a short-sleeved 
singlet, was John Hammerden. A heavy mining pick 
was in his hand, and the great muscles of the man’s neck 
and arms bulged like knots in the blazing sunlight; while 
the face, though under the shadow of an old and bat¬ 
tered Stetson, showed the same grim and inflexible pur¬ 
pose that it carried today. 

The picture to Mr. Courtenay was an illuminating ex¬ 
position. 

He turned from it to discover that Mr. Hammerden 
was scrutinizing him intently. 

Mr. Hammerden gave a curt nod, as though satisfied 
upon some point he had been inwardly debating. 

“Well, Mr. Courtenay,” he asked abruptly, “you think 
you have the qualifications my advertisement calls 
for?” 

His advertisement, thought Paddy. Then he was the 
mysterious “X. Y. Z.”—Mr. Hammerden himself. 

“Yes,” he answered with tremendous decision and an 
almost nonchalant composure which he did not altogether 
feel. “Yes, sir. I do.” 

Mr. Hammerden nodded. He took from his bureau 
a long envelope, and passed it to Mr. Courtenay. 

“Your papers,” he said briefly. “According to them 
you should be. You’ve a fine war record. About the 
social side?” 



22 


THE BIG HEART 


“I can go annywhere,” returned Patrick, that anny 
other gentleman can go.” 

Again Mr. Hammerden nodded. “Quite so,” he said. 
“And I take it that you’re open to do anything, to accept 
instructions as orders to be obeyed as unquestionably as 
those of your superior officers out there ? He nodded 
towards the envelope in his listener s hand, and eyed 
him keenly. 

Mr. Courtenay returned his look with one of equal 
squareness. 

“I am open to annything honest,” he replied quietly. 
“Annything that a gentleman may do, I will. Nothing 
more—or less.” 

Mr. Hammerden again gave his abrupt nod; a smile 
twitching the corners of his compressed lips. 

“My dear Mr. Courtenay,” he remarked calmly, “when 
I want anything else done here, I’ll get some one to do it 
that understands his job—or do it myself.” 

“That being the case,” returned Mr. Courtenay stoutly, 
“you couldn’t have a better man than myself. Unless,” 
he added quickly, “ ’tis one of the chaps waiting down¬ 
stairs. They’re fine fellows, all of them. I didn’t a bit 
like going before them. Especially—” 

“Especially as you were some ten minutes after the 
time appointed,” interpolated Mr. Hammerden grimly. 
“Is that a habit of yours?” 

“It is not,” averred the delinquent, “but under the 
circumstances I’m afraid I’d be doing the same again. I 
was saying there’s some grand fellows there—men who’ve 
been through it. There’s one, a Major Galbraith, D.S.O.; 
he seemed fearfully anxious to interview you. He has 
a wife and two children and—” 

Again the smile twitched at Mr. Hammerden’s iron 
mouth. “Are you disposing of this job before you’ve 
got it?” he asked. 


VIRTUE PAYS A DIVIDEND 


23 


Mr. Courtenay sighed. 

“The Lord forbid!” he said. “ ’Tis no business of 
mine. But when a man looks worried, and says he’d go 
from here to hell, and cut every throat on the road for 
twenty a week, or less, you know he’s up against it and 
—I thought perhaps I’d mention that . . Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay broke off with a gesture of self-abnegation that 
made the big man look at him closely. 

“He said that?” demanded Mr. Hammerden. 

“He did that,” answered Mr. Courtenay, “And meant 
it.” 

With a grunt of excuse the big man rose and left the 
room. Mr. Courtenay replaced the envelope of his 
distinguished war services in his pocket with the 
profound feeling that he had done the cause of Patrick 
Courtenay grave disservice; but that couldn’t be 
helped. The unfortunate man was there first 
anny how. 

Mr. Hammerden, returning, found him gazing thought¬ 
fully upon his portrait. 

“An old one that,” he said, jerking his head towards 
the picture. 

“Klondyke?” inquired Mr. Courtenay. 

“Arizona,” answered the magnate, leaning against the 
mantel and scanning his counterfeit representation. 
“Relic of the day when I had to work for my living.” 
He changed the subject swiftly. “I suppose you know 
what a sane man would reckon you are?” he demanded 
abruptly. 

“I do,” Courtenay answered simply. “A damned 
fool.” 

Mr. Hammerden resumed his seat at his bureau. “Any 
idea as to terms?” he snapped. 

“Not the remotest,” said Mr. Courtenay in the most 
business-like way possible. 


24* 


THE BIG HEART 


“A month’s notice—or money—if you don’t suit me?” 
again spat the big man. 

“If I can’t do your work I certainly don’t want 
your money,” retorted Mr. Courtenay with some in¬ 
dignation. 

Mr. Hammerden’s mouth twitched. “Twenty a week, 
and start now,” he said finally. “That on?” 

Mr. Courtenay’s breath left him for a moment. The 
precise amount mentioned by the Major as a suitable re¬ 
muneration for wholesale murder! 

“It is,” he answered slowly; “and—and I’m obliged to 
ye.” 

“From today,” grunted Mr. Hammerden shortly, “you 
are my man. That understood?” 

“Quite!” uttered the newly-employed, still slightly be¬ 
wildered. 

Mr. Hammerden turned; and from a drawer in his 
bureau took a cabinet photograph, which he glanced at 
and handed to Mr. Courtenay. 

“D’ye know that lady?” he asked tersely. 

Mr. Patrick looked at the photograph attentively. It 
was that of a woman of perhaps eight-and-twenty or 
thirty years—fashionably and expensively gowned in the 
latest mode of the day. A soft and beautiful face, with 
a wistful expression that seemed strange in one so young 
and richly gifted. 

Mr. Courtenay shook his head. “I do not,” he an¬ 
swered slowly. “She is very beautiful; and the face 
seems in some way familiar. But I do not know who 
she is.” 

Mr. Hammerden leaned forward. “That,” he in¬ 
formed him, “is the Countess of Racedene—the widow of 
the late Earl. He died, you may remember, some few 
years ago in America. I want you to find out for me 
everything there is to be known about her. Her financial 


VIRTUE PAYS A DIVIDEND 


25 


position since the death of her husband—that her married 
life was wretched and unhappy and that she has a son 
of about eight or ten years, heir to the earldom, I am 
already aware—” 

“She looks very young to have a son of that age,” 
commented Mr. Courtenay with raised brows. 

“She is older than her picture would suggest—three- 
and-thirty, to be exact,” answered Mr. Hammerden. He 
rose and paced the room, his hands gripped tensely be¬ 
hind his back. “I want to know,” he continued, “who 
are her friends; her intimates; her enemies; and who 
among the latter are openly and actively so. In fact, 
I want all the accurate information concerning that lady 
that you can acquire without making your intention ap¬ 
parent; and, above all, without permitting my interest to 
be known. Is that clear?” 

Mr. Courtenay regarded his employer in some astonish¬ 
ment. 

“But I am not even acquainted with the lady,” he 
gasped. 

“Report to me on Saturday morning at ten o’clock with 
the information I want,” returned Mr. Hammerden ab¬ 
ruptly. 

Mr. Courtenay returned the photograph; and moved 
towards the door; then turned suddenly. 

“I trust,” he began, “that these inquiries will be in no 
way derogatory to the lady’s interests; because if there’s 
any fear of that—” 

Mr. Hammerden swung round and contemplated his 
new lieutenant steadily. 

“Do you imagine,” he inquired with extreme precise¬ 
ness, “that if I intended any menace to the lady by my 
inquiries, I would entrust them to a damned impression¬ 
able Irishman who would throw me down as soon as look 
at me? Would I—do you think?” 


26 


THE BIG HEART 


“You would not,” answered Mr. Courtenay with trans¬ 
parent relief. 

“Saturday morning,” said Mr. Hammerden. “Ten 
o’clock. Ten,” he added with grim emphasis; “not ten 
past.” 

Mr. Courtenay bowed; he very nearly saluted; then re¬ 
tired, closing the door after himself gingerly. 

Mr. John Hammerden looked after him, and grinned. 
For a few seconds he sat thoughtfully studying the beau¬ 
tiful countenance of the Countess of Racedene; then, 
placing it carefully in his breast-pocket, rang his bell, 
and ordered the desperate Major Galbraith, D.S.O., to 
be haled before him. 


CHAPTER III: Which Introduces another Magnate 
and his Family; and a Shock for Mr. Courtenay 


) RAYLINGS,” Mr. John Hammerden’s house at 

J3 Sunbury, was indubitably the most handsome and 
best-maintained estate in the vicinity. Apart from the 
house itself, the gardens, lawns, great elm walks and 
shady pleasances it boasted, were the complete admira¬ 
tion, not to say envy, of all who beheld them. 

At “Braylings” Mr. Hammerden, though a widower, 
kept open house; entertaining lavishly and with distinc¬ 
tion. His establishment was presided over by his lovely 
daughter Penelope; a young lady who at the mature age 
of twenty exercised an authority over the “Braylings” 
household which no one was rash enough to question. 

At the moment that Mr. Patrick Courtenay took serv¬ 
ice under the Hammerden banner, “Braylings” was shel¬ 
tering within its hospitable walls a guest of international 
importance; none other than the great Jacob J. van Tulst 
Schornhurst of New York; Madeline his wife; and their 
lovely daughter Veronica. 

Mr. Schornhurst may be briefly described as an in¬ 
significant-looking little man with an instinct for making 
money. Beyond that, Jacob J. was a plain man; en¬ 
tirely lacking in the delicate nuances of Society, and with¬ 
out the slightest ambition to acquire them. These he 
left to his wife and daughter, of whom he was inordi¬ 
nately fond—and proud. 

The van Tulst portion of the family patronymic was 
of comparatively recent origin; having been unearthed 

by Mrs. Schornhurst shortly after Jacob J.’s adventurous 

27 


28 


THE BIG HEART 


dash into oil. It came, explained Mrs. Schornhurst, from 
an old family connection inadvertently fallen into disuse, 
and which she proposed to revive. At which informa¬ 
tion Jacob J. merely smiled and wondered what her father, 
old Mick Shannon, a stalwart paving contractor of 
unquestioned Hibernian ancestry, would have thought 
about it. 

Mrs. Jacob J. van Tulst Schornhurst was a lady who 
had been cast by nature in a generous and ample mould. 
And it may also be briefly remarked of her that though 
the ultra-exclusive van Tulsts reigned in her head when 
it was weighted by her massive tiara from Tiffany’s, her 
heart was in reality filled to overflowing with the 
warmth and tender feeling bequeathed to his children by 
the late Michael Parnell Shannon. 

Deep down in the brain of Mrs. Jacob J. was a very 
solid and definite social Idea. She had decided that the 
family over which she so majestically presided, should 
find its culminating apex in an alliance through her beau¬ 
tiful daughter with one of the noble houses of England. 
In the present consolidated state of the Schornhurst mil¬ 
lions, nothing less than a ducal coronet had as yet im¬ 
pinged itself into her ambitious day-dreams. 

A more beautiful and lovable girl than this solitary 
chick of the worthy couple it would have been difficult to 
find. Tall and stately of figure, with glorious brown 
hair and lustrous dark eyes, she was of a type rare 
enough, and striking enough in all conscience to menace 
the hearts of any who crossed her rose-strewn path; 
eligible and suitably coroneted, or not. 

Veronica and Penelope Hammerden had schooled to¬ 
gether in the same expensive continental seminary. 
Upon the not infrequent occasions when Mrs. Jacob J., 
in the furtherance of her deep-hidden matrimonial de¬ 
sign, brought her daughter to take part in the gaieties of 


A MAGNATE AND HIS FAMILY 


29 


the London Season, the two girls were inseparable. 

All that morning, the obdurate little yellow two-seater, 
so conspicuous in yesterday’s history, had carried their 
fair burden about and among the Surrey lanes with the 
temper of an angel and the guilelessness of—of Mr. 
Patrick D’Alroy Courtenay himself. Propitiously 
enough, that gentleman’s name and his gallant exploit 
figured with great prominence in the conversation of the 
journey. 

“Oh, Penny!” gasped the fair American after she had 
listened breathlessly to the full details of the stirring 
rencontre. “How absolutely lovely! He must have been 
very handsome?” 

“He was,” admitted Miss Hammerden; “strikingly so; 
and fearfully hard up, I fancy. That’s what I thought 
was so splendid about him. He was awfully anxious 
about the job, and yet he stopped to help me.” 

“Fancy it being you of all people he should help! My, 
it’s just Romance,” sighed Miss Schornhurst. “Noth¬ 
ing like that ever happened to me. And what did 
your poppa—Mr. Hammerden—say when you told 
him ?” 

The lovely Miss Hammerden exhibited her pearly teeth 
in a smile. “He didn’t get a chance to say much,” she 
laughed; “I just told him ‘that’s the gentleman who 
helped me, and you’ve got to see your “X. Y. Z.” engages 
him!’ And he said, T suppose I’d better, if I want 
any peace in the house. If lie’s not what I want I can 
soon fire him,’—and sent for him; so I fled.” 

“I do hope he doesn’t,” said Veronica earnestly. “I’m 
sure he’s very nice—and awfully clever.” 

“He looked a perfect Angel of Salvation to me when 
I first saw him,” declared Miss Hammerden. “I was 
on the verge of tears—if I wasn’t actually howling—and 
he came looking so capable and comforting. He had 




30 


THE BIG HEART 


the loveliest smile: so beautifully Irish. I’m sure he’s 
absolutely irresponsible when it suits him. He and that 
blood-curdling advertisement of Dad’s seemed simply 
made for one another.” 

“I wonder what it meant?” said Miss Schornhurst mus¬ 
ingly. 

“I’ve been wondering myself what it was all about,” 
answered Penelope. “I can’t think. But I’m going to 
find out. I’m not going to let my gallant rescuer be sub¬ 
merged in any of Dad’s fell schemes. Lord knows what 
scrapes he’d be getting into. Hundreds: he looks that 
sort.” 

“I wish I could see him,” observed Miss Schornhurst 
tentatively. “I love people like that. I’m never allowed 
to know them, of course!” she sighed. “Anybody in¬ 
teresting—especially if they’re poor—are ‘shooshed’ off, 
as if they were some especial kind of plague sent to upset 
Momma. Oh, Penny,” went on the heiress of Jacob J.’s 
millions, “I’m so sick of coronets and—and eligible young 
men. I’d give anything to ... I wouldn’t care whether 
he was good-looking, or how poor he was, as long as he 
hadn’t the last audit of Poppa’s millions pencilled on his 
shirt-cuff. Just as long as he cared for me . . . and was 
good . . . like your Mr. Paddy!” 

Miss Hammerden went a very sudden but entirely 
beautiful shade of crimson; and nearly succeeded in 
running the yellow two-seater through a particularly 
thick bramble-hedge. 

“I wonder—I wonder who you’ll marry, Penny?” 
mused the heiress. 

“Whoever I think I will,” answered Miss Hammerden 
with extreme certitude. 

“But supposing your father objected?” asked Miss 
Schornhurst. 

“Then he’d have an extremely unpleasant time,” re- 



31 


A MAGNATE AND HIS FAMILY 

/ 

torted Miss Hammerden grimly. “And you ought to 
do the same,” she added. 

“Penny!” gasped Jacob J.’s daughter. “Whatever 
would Momma do?” 

“Do?” replied Miss Penelope. “Do? I know what 
she’d do if I were in your place.” 

“You don’t know Momma,” sighed Miss Schornhurst. 

“No, love,” returned John Hammerden’s daughter, 
“perhaps I don’t. But if I wanted to marry any one, and 
I knew he loved me, I’d many him.” 

Could the ambitious Mrs. Jacob J. van Tulst Schorn¬ 
hurst have had the slightest inkling of the pernicious doc¬ 
trines her daughter was imbibing from the lips of her 
friend, she would have had her across the Atlantic again 
—without undue delay. 

Mr. Patrick D’Alroy Courtenay, emerging from Mr. 
Hammerden’s office, found that his beautiful little un¬ 
known and her yellow car had disappeared. He would 
greatly have liked to have informed her of the success 
of his mission; and at the same time have flung out 
some little bridge that would have ensured a second meet¬ 
ing. 

As she was gone, there was nothing to be done but 
accept her optimistic assurance that they would meet 
again, and live in hope. He had other matters to concern 
himself with—matters of considerable moment. 

Here was this job—now that he had got it! 

Had ever such an infernally intriguing, bewildering, 
not to say nonplussing, business been thrust into a man’s 
hands to set about! Most emphatically there had not! 

Who was the beautiful and sad-faced lady—this Count¬ 
ess of Racedene? Who were her friends?—her enemies? 
What were her circumstances? Of all men in London at 
that moment he, Mr. Courtenay, knew least of any as to 



32 


THE BIG HEART 


the correct answer to these questions. And here was it 
his work to find out and report correctly concerning them 
by ten o’clock (and not ten past) upon Saturday morning 
next. Two days! 

Well, ’twas a peculiar business; but having undertaken 
it, Mr. Patrick Courtenay assured himself that he was 
the man to do it. Heaven alone knew how; but he was. 
All that he hoped was that, having accomplished it, the 
results of his investigation would be to the benefit of the 
beautiful lady with the sad face: that they would redound 
entirely to her credit he had no misgivings—none what¬ 
ever. A face so beautiful, in Mr. Courtenay’s opinion, 
cloaked nothing that was base or ignoble. 

Mr. Courtenay started out of a heated disputation with 
himself to find he was being leisurely prodded by the 
walking-stick of the Honourable Mr. Blakeley; what 
time that gentleman was regarding him through his 
monocle with considerable astonishment. 

“I say, old bean,” he admonished, “wake up! You look 
as if you were arguin’ with somebody.” 

Mr. Courtenay grinned somewhat sheepishly. 

“I believe I was,” he admitted. “In my dreams. 
Where are the others?” 

“The Major,” Mr. Blakeley informed him, “was re¬ 
quested by the offic e-wallah to wait. The rest of us were 
bundled out neck and crop. N. bally G .—hoi polloi! 
The other desperadoes, havin’ developed thirst durin’ 
the long wait, have trucked off to some boozin’ ken in 
Copthall Avenue that one of ’em wotted of. I was de¬ 
puted to wait and tow you along. Gal follows on when 
his company is dispensed with. We’re all shockin’ curi¬ 
ous about 'X. Y. Z: and his bally job; and propose pump¬ 
in’ you till death ensues. And that’s about the lot.” 

Mr. Courtenay laughed mirthlessly. 

“I’m afraid you won’t pump me for much. I’m en- 


A MAGNATE AND HIS FAMILY 


33 


gaged, but what the divil it’s all about I’m blessed if I 
know. And if I did I couldn’t tell you—for in a way 
I’m bound to secrecy. ’Tis all to do with a lady, and I 
couldn’t breathe a word to a soul.” 

“Stout feller,” commented Mr. Blakeley. “I hope old 
Gal’s fixed. I’m worried about him and his wife and 
kids.” 

Mr. Patrick Courtenay took a quick but observant 
glance at the excessively plain features of the Honour¬ 
able. 

“What about yourself?” he asked. 

“Me?” replied Mr. Blakeley. “Oh, I didn’t want the 
job—er—not financially that is. In fact,” his voice took 
on rather a shamefaced note, “when I got there and found 
so many good chaps that did, I felt a bit of a rotter. 
No, I went after it because I was simply fed up, and the 
ad. did sound mysteriously promisin’ you know.” 

“I know,” said Mr. Courtenay reflectively; “and I 
do hope to the Lord the Major has touched lucky. I 
stuck in a word—the best I could. I mentioned that he’d 
cut all the throats between here and blazes for twenty a 
week or less.” 

* 

At the restaurant hostelry considerable good liquor had 
been consumed before the Major, looking twenty years 
younger, burst in upon them in a state of tremendous 
and excited happiness. 

He made straight for Mr. Courtenay and gripped his 
hand. 

“My dear fellow!” he ejaculated breathlessly. “My 
dear Courtenay! I’m* indebted to you. I can’t thank 
you enough. . . .” 

Mr. Courtenay blushed. 

“Rats,” he remarked tersely. “What’ll you try?” 

“But I do thank you,” insisted the grizzled Major. “It 
was your good word that did it. Dammit—it was kind, 




34 


THE BIG HEART 


Courtenay. My wife—poor girl—she’ll be delighted.” 

“But I only repeated your words,” expostulated Mr. 
Courtenay modestly. 

“I know you did,” beamed the Major. “You told him 
that I’d cut throats for my wife and the kids. He 
put it to me straight; and I said I would—if they needed 
it. ‘So would 1/ he said, and told me to come in Mon¬ 
day. ‘I’ll find you something to do, though I don’t want 
any throat cuttin’—as yet.’ And so,” went on the Major 
breathlessly, “there we are. I’m that happy I ... I 
don’t dare to think how near to hopeless I was getting,” 
he said, soberly. “It was a—a nightmare! Let’s have 
a drink on the strength of it." 

At Piccadilly they parted: Mr. Courtenay with some 
vague idea of commandeering “Debrett’s,” “Bourke” and 
other epitomes of the peerage to be found at his club, and 
entering upon an afternoon study of the family of Race- 
dene : the Honourable Mr. Blakeley presumably to ex¬ 
plore new rings of trouble as yet untrodden by his er¬ 
ratic footsteps. 

“By the way,” he concluded, half hanging out the 
window of his licensed vehicle, “I owe one of your old 
lot a lunch—might as well be you, don’t you think?” He 
passed a visiting-card out the window. “S’pose you drop 
in and feed with me one-thirty tomorrow? I can do 
you pretty well at my rat-pit; and we can have a pow-wow 
after.” 

He waved a hand towards the card. “Pont Street— 
one-thirty. So long, old bean.” 

Mr. Courtenay, after ransacking all the authorities and 
resolutely plodding a weary way through untold piles of 
weekly and monthly journals devoted to the movements 
of the aristocracy, went to bed that night with a splitting 
head and a feeling of dejection. So far all he had been 



A MAGNATE AND HIS FAMILY 


35 


able to discover was that the Countess of Racedene had 
a house in Eaton Square, and a place known as “Cover¬ 
ings” in Wiltshire. 

Which of these residences her ladyship was favouring 
with her presence at the moment he had no more idea 
than the Man in the Moon. The outlook for success was 
black, blank, dark and damned dreary. With which 
comfortless conclusion he turned into bed. 

Sleep was a long time in overtaking him; and when 
finally it did, it overwhelmed him in the vilest conglom¬ 
eration of dreams; and in all of them the beautiful 
Countess underwent such pitiful, ruthless oppressions, tor¬ 
turings, and general sufferings at the hand of himself 
(aided with eager enthusiasm by Mr. John Hammerden) 
that even in his restless slumber he knew he ought to be 
led out and shot. 

He awoke in a cold sweat, trembling in every limb; 
and after two hurriedly-concocted whiskies-and-sodas, 
spent the rest of the night sharing a large armchair with 
his bull-terrier; with all the lights turned on. 

Dawn found him still sleeplessly contemplating the 
mission assigned him; and the more he considered it, 
the more hopelessly impudent and outrageous it loomed. 
One o’clock came, leaving him, after another morning’s 
research, a mental and well-nigh physical wreck. At 
which point he gave it up and repaired to Pont Street. 
The luck of the Courtenays seemed to have turned its 
back upon him. 

His host greeted him with the utmost cordiality; led 
him to a dining-room adorned by pictures and prints of 
racehorses, gamecocks, bruisers, and ladies in various 
stages of undress, all eminently characteristic of the 
tastes of Mr. Blakeley, when suddenly Mr. Courtenay was 
startled by the raising from a deep divan of a face—a 


36 


THE BIG HEART 


beautiful and alluring face—strangely familiar to him. 

“A totally unexpected guest, Courtenay,” explained 
the Honourable Bill. “Felicia, my friend Captain Cour¬ 
tenay. Courtenay, my sister, the Countess of Racedene.” 


CHAPTER IV: In which Mr. Courtenay Makes a 
good Friend—and a had Enemy 

W HATEVER scorn and repugnance of himself 
and his position had been gnawing rat-like at 
the worried Mr. Courtenay prior to his meeting with the 
beautiful Countess of Racedene, it was intensified a thou¬ 
sandfold after two wholly delightful hours in her society. 
Her loveliness, her gentle simplicity of manner, took 
hold of his kindly heart, and aided his stricken conscience 
in the torturing of him. 

She spoke to him of her son, and of their simple coun¬ 
try life in the Wiltshire home. A woman in a thousand, 
he thought; and one that honoured a man by the gift of 
her friendship. Unquestionably a more unconscionable 
blackguard than himself, to pry into the affairs of so 
sweet and gentle a lady, never cumbered the earth—un¬ 
less it be the man who had set him at such scoundrelly 
work. 

It seemed fairly obvious to him that the mainstay of 
advice—and perhaps other services—of the Countess was 
her brother, the Honourable Bill; of the mutual attach¬ 
ment that existed between them there could be no doubt. 

Her ladyship was in Town upon the important busi¬ 
ness of arranging for a tutor to her son Eric; a matter 
upon which the advice and opinions of Mr. Blakeley 
seemed highly desirable. 

That gentleman appeared completely nonplussed: in¬ 
deed, expressed the opinion that he was about the last 
person in the world to be consulted upon such a point. 
He was frankly of no assistance in the matter. 

37 





38 


THE BIG HEART 


“Must have one, I know, Fel,” he said. “Boy’s get- 
tin’ on. Whatever y’do, get a gentleman. I suppose he’ll 
have to be a Church Johnny, or somethin’ of that sort; 
but,” here Mr. Blakeley shook his head with considerable 
dubiousness, “personally I loathe ’em.” 

Whereupon Mr. Courtenay—a sudden shaft of memory 
transfixing him—ventured a suggestion in the dilemma. 

“There’s a man I know,” he began slowly, addressing 
himself to the Countess, “that I believe would suit your 
purpose down to the ground.” 

The Honourable Mr. Blakeley looked up and grinned. 

“Another of your bally pals out of a job?” he inquired. 
“Courtenay here is a boon and benefactor to his friends 
in findin’ ’em jobs,” he explained to his sister. 

Mr. Courtenay flushed uncomfortably. 

“Ah, now,” he urged, “you mustn’t heed him. ’Tis 
a man I know that was with me in France—a padre. 
He’s one of the finest gentlemen that ever breathed and 
a great scholar. Certainly, he’s Irish, like myself; there’s 
that against him; but I’m sure, Lady Racedene, you 
might go far to find a better man to tutor your boy. I 
am that,” said Paddy earnestly. 

Lady Racedene smiled. “I’m quite sure of that, Mr. 
Courtenay,” she said kindly, “if you recommend him.” 

“What’s his name?” demanded the Honourable Bill. 

“Desmond—Brian Desmond. One of the Desmonds 
of Kinhale,” he explained to Lady Racedene. “An old 
Irish family.” 

“You don't mean the ‘Fighting Padre’?” inquired Mr. 
Blakeley, sitting up in some astonishment. 

“The same,” answered Paddy. “There isn’t a grander 
man stands in shoe-leather. He’ll not have anny to 
stand in soon if he doesn’t find something to do,” he 
added with a sigh. 



MR. COURTENAY MAKES A FRIEND 39 


“D’ye mean that he wants a job?” exclaimed the 
Honourable Bill, aghast. “A feller like that!” 

“Do you know this gentleman?” asked the Countess of 
her brother. 

“I know of him—of course; everybody did out there,” 
answered that worthy. “I daresay as a scholar he’s all 
there, as Courtenay says. Make a man of the kid, at 
any rate. And that’s something,” he added, with a sig¬ 
nificant glance at his sister. 

The Countess flushed. “That,” she said in her low 
voice, “in our case, is everything.” 

“That’s if you think he’s obtainable?” amended Mr. 
Blakeley, looking towards his guest. 

“He’s obtainable right enough,” assured Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay. “More’s the pity. I met him only yesterday— 
he’s eating his heart out for something to do.” 

The Countess of Racedene rose. 

“There are many things I have to see to today,” she 
explained, with one of her rare smiles. “I shouldn’t have 
stayed nearly so long here,” she laughed, “but you are 
a very cheering and fascinating couple of—of inconse¬ 
quents.” 

Mr. Blakeley grinned. 

“Courtenay should feel himself vastly honoured,” he 
said. 

“I do, indeed,” assured that gentleman, taking the 
gloved hand extended to him. 

“And if I might trouble you still further to ask Mr. 
Desmond to communicate with my brother, I feel sure 
that they could arrange something. And the sooner Mr. 
Desmond can come to ‘Claverings’ the better.” 

“Right ho!” said the Honourable Bill. “Leave the 
Fighting Padre to me.” 

“I’ll see Desmond this very night,” said Mr. Courtenay. 


40 


THE BIG HEART 


For another hour or more the Honourable Mr. Blake¬ 
ley and his guest sat on smoking and chatting; and in 
their conversation the Countess of Racedene and her af¬ 
fairs recurred frequently. The more Mr. Courtenay 
learned, the more forcibly he felt that a beneficent Fate 
had rescued him from a position utterly abhorrent to 
his generous nature. 

“I’m rather pleased,” remarked Mr. Blakeley medita¬ 
tively, “that this question of a tutor for the youngster 
came up today. With such a man as Desmond it will be 
a job well settled.” 

“You think the boy will need a man of that stamp?” 
ventured Mr. Courtenay. 

The Honourable Bill nodded thoughtfully. 

“Yes,” he replied shortly, “I do. And if there’s any¬ 
thing in heredity, he'll need it badly. A bigger scoundrel 
than that poor girl's husband,” he went on bitterly, “never 
drew breath. A rotter —out and out.” 

Paddy Courtenay gasped. 

“I thought most people knew it,” continued his host. 
“What my sister went through from that scoundrel no 
one but herself can say. If Fd known as much as I do 
now,” went on Mr. Blakeley grimly, “he wouldn’t have 
gone out to Texas to be murdered. Fd have done it my¬ 
self cheerfully.” 

“Murdered!” 

“Shot dead—at a place called Dallas, in Texas.” 

Paddy Courtenay was dumbfounded. Mr. Hammer- 
den had not mentioned this tragic finale to the Earl’s 
career. Instinctively he found himself wondering why 
not. He knew so much of the Racedene history—surely 
he must have known of that? 

“And—and was it never known who killed him?” he 
stammered. 

“Oh, yes. A man of the name of Haybridge—Arthur 


MR. COURTENAY MAKES A FRIEND 41 


Haybridge; an Englishman that had been concerned with 
Racedene in some mining ventures. He was tried for 
it; found guilty—and escaped. I was never more pleased 
to hear of anything in my life. If ever there was an act 
of justice, that brute’s death was. An unspeakable 
swine,” shrugged the Honourable Bill. “We’ll drop him. 
But you can quite understand why a tutor of the right 
kind is a necessity for the boy.” 

“ ’Tis the very job for Brian,” said Mr. Courtenay. 

The instinct that impelled Patrick to attire himself in 
his latest morning suit for the occasion of his resignation 
from Mr. Hammerden’s service was, as matters proved, 
entirely at fault. 

His slumber had not been troubled as upon the previ¬ 
ous night; horror piled upon horror had not again driven 
him to share the favourite sleeping accommodation of the 
excessively low-lived-looking Old Punch. 

That intelligent canine was watching—with deep con¬ 
centration—the process of his master’s toilet. He was 
waiting for it to arrive at the coat and vest stage of com¬ 
pletion ; by which, according to the garments d’onned, he 
could make a fair guess at his chances of accompanying 
Mr. Patrick abroad, or the contrary. 

His one beady black eye—the one ornamented by na¬ 
ture with a brindle patch had been lost in a fight—glit¬ 
tered -upon Mr. Courtenay’s progress, in hope. 

That hope seemed fated to be dashed ruthlessly to the 
ground, when, invested in the morning coat (an exceed¬ 
ing smart garment with which Old Punch rarely appeared 
in conjunction), Mr. Courtenay took his top-hat from 
his case, smoothed it tenderly with a silken handkerchief, 
and adjusted it at the correct angle of jauntiness favoured 
by the young gentlemen of his set. 

Perhaps it was that “the ould divil,” as Patrick affec¬ 
tionately called him when he rubbed a parting hand over 


42 


THE BIG HEART 


the cropped and battle-scarred ears, sho.wed such mourn¬ 
ful depression in his one remaining orb that Mr. Courtenay 
hesitated; and hesitating was lost. And so it came to pass 
that when he sallied upon his self-respecting, though none 
the less self-abnegating, jaunt to Mr. Hammerden’s Lom¬ 
bard Street offices, he was accompanied by sixty-four 
pounds of as disreputable-looking fighting dog as could 
be found in the cities of London and Westminster com¬ 
bined. 

At Lombard Street Mr. Courtenay found the offices— 
or rather those engaged in them—in a state of dishevelled 
excitement, bordering upon, in some cases, terror. 

The gentlemanly office-wallah —a Mr. Pearson by 
name—was to be heard protesting nervously in the sanc¬ 
tuary of Mr. Hammerden’s private office with some per¬ 
son equally invisible; but whose hoarse, vicious, and en¬ 
tirely threatening voice suggested that he was some ex¬ 
tremely undesirable visitor of American extraction. 

Mr. Hammerden’s stenographer hurried across to him, 
trembling in every limb. The girl was in a state of 
complete terror. 

“Whatever’s the trouble?” inquired Mr. Courtenay 
with his reassuring smile. 

She shuddered. 

“That terrible man!” she gasped. “Mr. Ham—Ham- 
merden is away—sprained foot—we’cl just had his in¬ 
structions—on ’phone—when he came.” 

She nodded tremulously towards the inner door, where 
a raising of the snarling nasal voice and the crash of a 
fist upon a table gave evident token of the visitor’s in- 
furiation. 

The girl, who had jumped at the crash, calmed a little 
with the steadying touch of the good-looking Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay’s hand upon her arm. 

“He demanded . . . some—some One ... we had 





MR. COURTENAY MAKES A FRIEND 43 


never heard of here,” she continued breathlessly. “A 
Mr. Haybridge—Arthur Haybridge—we don’t know 
him.” 

“Haybridge!” Mr. Courtenay’s memory awoke with a 
jolt. Where had he heard that name—quite recently? 
Where ? 

“Who?” he demanded sharply. 

“Some person called Haybridge,” repeated the stenog¬ 
rapher. “Arthur Haybridge. Mr. Pearson told him we 
had no one of that name here; and the man took him by 
the throat, flung him out of the way and forced into Mr. 
Hammerden’s room. He refuses to go, and is threaten¬ 
ing horribly! He calls himself Howarth—Bart How- 
arth” 

Mr. Courtenay’s mouth closed down grimly. Some¬ 
thing would have to be done. He was racking his brains 
for the significance to him of the name Haybridge. 
Meanwhile—with the big man away— In a flash it came 
to him! The man Blakeley had spoken of—the English¬ 
man, Arthur Haybridge —the man who had shot Racedene 
and escaped from the Texan gaol! What the deuce had 
he to do with Mr. John Hammerden? 

“Ask Mr.—er—Pearson to come out to me a moment.” 

Tremblingly she crept to the door, and hurriedly mut¬ 
tered something through; then scuttled back to her vantage 
point of safety. Mr. Pearson, exceedingly perturbed, 
followed out. That he was a terrified man did not need 
a second look. 

“Why don’t you send for the police?” asked Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay abruptly. 

Mr. Pearson sent an involuntary glance around, then 
dropped his voice to a whisper. 

“My dear Mr. Courtenay,” he said, “I—I dare not. 
The man is probably insane, but he is saying such extraor¬ 
dinary things that I . . .’’he stopped with a despairing 





44 


THE BIG HEART 


gesture. “Mr. Hammerden’s bureau has many most pri¬ 
vate papers—incalculable harm may be done. I . . 

“He point-blank refuses to go, does he?” interrupted 
Paddy with a hardening of the eyes. 

“Positively; until he has seen this—this Haybridge 
person.” 

“Right ho, old bean.” Mr. Courtenay calmly thrust 
the stout leathern lead that held the big bull-terrier into 
Mr. Pearson’s shrinking hand. “You hang on to Punch,” 
he directed. “He won’t hurt you, but he might make a 
mess-up in there. Savee?” 

With which warning utterance, he walked quietly into 
the private office, and closed the door softly upon himself. 

Kneeling before Mr. Hammerden’s desk was a huge, 
raven-haired, and tawny-skinned, man. From his colour 
there was evidently some touch of foreign blood in him. 
His clothes were of loose American cut. 

Mr. Courtenay removed his cherished top-hat, and 
placed it carefully down upon a table; then crossed and 
touched the intruder upon the shoulder. 

“And what d’ye think ye’re up to there?” he inquired 
with grim pleasantry. 

The intruder rose swiftly and faced him; whipping a 
hand back to his right hip with a snarl, he stood glaring 
down at the man accosting him. 

“Half-breed,” thought Mr. Courtenay, noting the cruel 
aquiline features and smouldering black eyes. “Indian 
—or Mexican . . . dangerous!” 

In the most even and gentle tone Mr. Patrick repeated 
his question. 

The big half-breed moved the merest fraction closer to 
him. 

“What am I up to here?” repeated the stranger. “I’ll 
tell you. I’m after a man called Arthur Haybridge; an’ 
I’m stoppin’ here until I see him. Get me?” 


MR. COURTENAY MAKES A FRIEND 45 


Mr. Courtenay shook his head in very obvious disagree¬ 
ment. 

“I think not he said slowly. “There is no one of that 
name here.” 

“Is that so?” said the tawny-skinned visitor, with a 
particularly evil twist of his mouth. “Is that so? If 
Haybridge ain’t known round here, what’s his picture 
doin’ on that wall?” 

He pointed with a savage gesture directly at the portrait 
of Mr. John Hammerden. So menacing was the look 
and act that the astounding information he conveyed 
had no chance to percolate its full significance through 
Patrick’s brain. For a tense moment the half-breed held 
that attitude. “And now, Mister,” he concluded, digging 
that gentleman once or twice in the chest with outstretched 
fingers of iron rigidity, “now —what the hell’s it got to 
do with you?” 

For answer Mr. Patrick D’Alroy Courtenay raised him¬ 
self imperceptibly upon his toes, and upper-cut the pro¬ 
truding chin with all his heart, with all his mind, and 
with all his strength. 


CHAPTER V: Mr. Courtenay, losing heavily on the 
Swings, Gains on the Roundabouts 

I F ex-Captain Paddy Courtenay had been haled before 
a tribunal of sober and rational-minded men and 
asked to explain his action in slogging the objectionable 
Mr. Howarth upon his truculent-looking jaw, he would 
have been at a considerable loss to evolve a sane reply. 

It had been an irresistible impulse. He would prob¬ 
ably have justified it by saying that the man had no right 
there; had still less right to be tampering with Mr. Ham- 
merden’s private desk with obviously felonious intent. 

Upon getting that invaluable “first’’ in, Patrick speedily 
discovered that he was not up against the notorious bully 
of fiction, in whom the courage quickly evaporates after 
receipt of such a punch as Mr. Elowarth had received. 
Far, very far from it! Before Mr. Courtenay could fol¬ 
low up his advantage, he found himself faced by fifteen 
stones of solid desperado who knew his job, and meant 
doing it. He also was to make immediate acquaintance 
with methods of fighting with which, so far, he had had 
no experience. 

There was no talk. After that first blow the fighting 
was too rapid; and the half-breed moved with a lithe¬ 
ness incredible in so big a man. Twice Patrick’s left 
had flashed into his face solidly; once the half-breed sent 
a smashing right home with such terrific force that Mr. 
Courtenay felt that a large proportion of his features were 
permanently disarranged. 

Then he saw red; and drove in with such irresistible 

fury that the big man dropped back a little—to plant a 

46 


GAINS ON THE ROUNDABOUTS 


47 


kick under the Irishman’s heart that sent him sick and 
reeling against a wall. 

Instantly Howarth was upon him, and in the relent¬ 
less glare of the savage eyes Paddy saw he was not 
fighting for a mere victory; he was fighting for his 
life. 

There was a singing in his ears, and somewhere he 
could hear the hum of telephone-bells. He wondered in 
a detached sort of way what the “breed” was fighting 
open-handed at his face for. Once he closed, to try con¬ 
clusions as to their respective strength; but the big man 
hurled him against the wall as though he had been a child, 
instead of a twelve-stone man. Then Howarth lowered 
his head, and seizing Paddy by the shoulders, dashed his 
black head furiously into his face. He got in a couple 
of stinging jabs in return, but the smashing impact, 
backed by the wall behind, half-stunned him, and set him 
punching blindly. 

Again those telephones were ringing away like wildfire; 
what the devil were they at? he wondered. Suddenly he 
felt the touch of cold metal against his hand, and knew 
that the half-breed was meaning to end it with hi's gun. 
Instinctively, in a whirling, straining clinch, he grasped 
for the gun hand, and seized it. There must be no mis¬ 
take this time, he knew. He had to get that gun, and get 
it quick. 

As luck had it, his grip fastened over the thumb; he 
forced that member back, and threw all his weight upon 
it desperately. For the first time the big man murmured 
a sharp, savage ejaculation of pain. The revolver 
dropped to the ground. 

Howarth, using his vast weight, dragged his opponent 
down towards it: Paddy, in desperation, let out a vicious 
side-kick in the direction he thought it lay, in the wild 
hope of sending it out of reach. 




48 


THE BIG HEART 


In reply came a fearful scream of pain from Howarth 
—a scream so sharp and anguished that it startled Paddy 
nearly out of his wits. 

What in the name of Heaven had he done, he thought, 
that had proved so efficacious to hurt? In a flash there 
came to his tired brain the old story of the vulnerability 
of the nigger’s shin. He made no bones about it—with 
an opponent like this; twice, with the frenzied vim of 
bygone “rugger’’ days, he kicked; and twice from the 
lips of the half-breed was torn a discordant yell of rage 
and agony. 

For a moment he went limp; then, with a frenzied ac¬ 
cess of berserker rage, forced Paddy down upon a desk 
and clutched at his face with an outstretched hand. The 
“breed” was at the Mexican trick—he meant to gouge 
his eyes! 

With a ferocity born of despair he fought to lift the 
mass from him, and grip that clawing hand. One ter¬ 
rible twinge of pain under his right eye gave him hor¬ 
rible warning of what was to come; when of a sudden 
something—a hurtling white mass—flashed across his 
shoulder, striking his head; he felt the weight lift from 
him, and sank limply to the floor. 

In an indistinct haze he heard voices—very far away; 
heard a scream—then the reverberating explosion, quite 
close to him, of a shot. Another scuffle—then a heavy 
door slam—felt himself sliding away into a soft, silent, 
beautiful, and restful . . . nothing. 

Mr. Patrick Courtenay recovered his senses a few 
minutes later. He slowly opened his eyes—one of them 
seemed very reluctant to resume duty—and looked up. 
He found himself gazing into the limpid orbs of the 
stenographer lady, who was tenderly bathing his head 
with water from a basin. She was kneeling upon the 
floor; and Mr. Courtenay discovered that the softness 


GAINS ON THE ROUNDABOUTS 


49 


upon which his head was pillowed was her lap. It was 
an extremely comfortable lap. 

Mr. Courtenay noted that from this upside-down view¬ 
point she had a really delectable neck and chin, and that 
the lashes of her pitying eyes swept her damask cheeks— 
which was all as it should be in one so fair and gentle¬ 
handed. He wondered what her name was, and what she 
thought of things generally. 

He opened his lips to smile at her; but closed them hur¬ 
riedly: they appeared to have been run over by some 
heavy vehicle at the least—fearfully swollen, and split in 
a dozen places. 

Some unseen person pushed into his hand something 
cold and clammy—something remarkably like uncooked 
meat. He moved gingerly, and glanced along his recum¬ 
bent form, to discover that the whole lower portion of 
his body was covered by Old Punch, who lay straddled 
across him in anxious solicitude. 

He was exceedingly grisly and gory about the muzzle, 
and had apparently been enjoying himself immensely. 
Upon encountering Patrick’s eye, he wriggled closer to 
him, and thumped the carpet loudly and enthusiastically 
with his tail. 

Upon the floor Mr. Courtenay perceived the fateful 
revolver; but of the genial Mr. Bart Howarth there was 
no trace at all. 

He resumed his scrutiny of the mercifully-minded 
stenographer lady. This time, with an effort, he man¬ 
aged to smile. She blushed. 

“How are you now?” she asked timidly. 

“Terrific/’ he ungrammatically assured her. “Where’s 
the bright little soul Howarth—our dear Barty?” 

“Gone,” she said. “Your dog drove him out. He 
tried to shoot him, but missed, and shot the mirror in¬ 
stead. The dog tore his face and neck badly.” 




50 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. Courtenay’s skinned hand went down to the 
cropped ears: the owner of which tattered aural ap¬ 
pendages licked it frantically. 

“Broke the mirror, did he? Seven years’ bad luck 
for our little Barty. Where’s Mr. Pearson?” he in¬ 
quired. 

“On the ’phone to Sunbury—to Mr. Hammerden,” she 
added explanatorily. 

Mr. Courtenay pondered this information a moment. 

“Oh,” he said at length. “Well, I hope he doesn’t 
make a bally mouthful of my debacle. By the way, was 
that Mr. Hammerden on the ’phone when the melee was 
at its height?” 

The stenographer lady nodded. “It was his orders to 
turn the dog into the room.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Courtenay reflectively, “so Mr. Ham¬ 
merden is acquainted with Howarth, then?” 

The stenographer lady rose—Mr. Courtenay sitting up 
to permit her—and moved towards the door. “You’re— 
you’re a fearful mess,” she warned. “Your eyes will be 
beautiful before long.” 

“They’ll never be as beautiful as yours,” breathed 
Patrick softly. 

With which flagrant remark in her ears, the stenog¬ 
rapher lady blushingly departed. 

Mr. Courtenay rose carefully; he was as stiff as a 
broken-down cab-horse—and as slow. With an effort 
he stooped, picked up the revolver, and examined it. 

Two things about it struck Mr. Patrick as strange— 
exceedingly strange. Upon the butt of the weapon was 
roughly carved the initials “A. H.”; and, further, it was 
not loaded. Yet the stenographer lady had said very dis¬ 
tinctly that Howarth had fired at Old Punch. He glanced 
at the mirror—it was shattered into a thousand pieces. 


GAINS ON THE ROUNDABOUTS 


51 


Courtenay sniffed at the chambers: it had not been fired 
in months—perhaps years: then the half-breed must have 
used another revolver—the one he had thought was in 
his hand when he drew this empty one on his opponent. 
But why carry this empty, and, for the purpose of either 
offence or defence, useless gun upon such a jaunt as this? 
And why the initials “A. HA? 

Was it as evidence—a something tangible to back a 
threat? Was it possible that it was this weapon that 
had killed . . . ? 

Mr. Courtenay whipped the revolver into his hip-pocket 
as the stenographer lady bustled back into the room—a 
small oval mirror in her hand. She was closely followed 
by Mr. Pearson, exceedingly white of countenance. 
When his wild eyes fell upon Mr. Courtenay, he raised 
his hands, aghast, and moaned hollowly. 

‘'Cheer up,” said that battered individual cheerfully. 
“It’s me that’s got it—not you.” 

“I hope you’re not seriously injured!” exclaimed Mr. 
Pearson. 

"So do I,” said Mr. Courtenay. “Annyway I hope I 
gave as good as I got.” 

He extended his hand for the mirror. The stenog¬ 
rapher lady handed it over with a reluctance that, to 
Patrick’s mind, boded ill. Mr. Pearson gazed at the 
ceiling, quite embarrassed, as Mr. Courtenay examined 
himself. 

The faithful presentment of his features returned by 
the little mirror overwhelmed Paddy Courtenay for a 
moment. 

"Holy Mike!” he ejaculated. "He’s lammed me prop¬ 
erly.” 

"He looked worse than you do,” volunteered the ste¬ 
nographer lady promptly. 


52 


THE BIG HEART 


Patrick’s face lit cheerfully. 

“Bless ye, my child,” he said. “There’s some comfort 
in that, cmnyway” 

Mr. Pearson intervened. 

“Er—Mr. Hammerden wishes you to report to him at 
Sunbury at once.” 

“If he thinks I’m going into a railway station like this, 
he’s mistaken,” said Paddy. 

“Good heavens! no,” ejaculated Mr. Pearson. “I’ve 
’phoned the Daimler Hire Co. for a closed car for you. 
It will be here at any moment—and will take you right 
to the door of ‘Braylings.’ Mr. Hammerden is most 
anxious to see you at once.” 

Patrick considered a minute; he could understand per¬ 
fectly the anxiety of Mr. Hammerden in the matter—for 
reasons not to be discussed with Mr. Pearson. 

“I suppose I’d better,” he conceded reluctantly. 
“I suppose you can find me the means of a clean¬ 
up?” 

“Everything—everything,” answered Mr. Pearson, 
bustling about, “and one of the clerks can step out and 
get you a new collar.” 

Tidied up, and with the judicious application of stick¬ 
ing-plaster, Mr. Courtenay took more the semblance of 
a human being; but nothing could alter those eyes—the 
discolouration of which ranged from chrome yellow to a 
deep shade of purple. His lips gave the impression of 
having been stung by a hive of irate bees. 

“There’s one thing,” said the lady stenographer con¬ 
solingly. “No one will ever recognize you.” 

“Strange as it may appear to you,” observed Mr. 
Courtenay grimly, “I have no wish that they should. 
Hold the dog while I doss him up.” 

“Didn’t I understand you to say,” asked Mr. Cour- 


GAINS ON THE ROUNDABOUTS 


53 


tenay, prior to taking his departure, “that Howarth shot 
at Punch here?” 

“He did,” answered the lady stenographer, indig¬ 
nantly; “the beast. He was trying desperately hard to 
pick something up from the floor and the dog wouldn’t 
let him.” 

At the noble portal of “Braylings,” Hebditch, the 
august butler of that establishment, gazed upon the latest 
visitation in unmitigated horror. Hebditch, with a record 
of the most exclusive service, was not accustomed to this 
sort of thing. 

However, having had most explicit instructions con¬ 
cerning the advent of this—this person, Mr. Hebditch ad¬ 
mitted him, and even demeaned himself so far as to bend 
slightly before him. He kept an exceedingly wary eye 
upon the dog, however: a brute of that sort was liable 
to anything. 

Mr. Courtenay, standing in the lofty hall with its great 
carved staircase and beautiful oak panelling, considered 
that Mr. Hammerden in the home circle did himself re¬ 
markably well. 

He was musing upon the occurrences of the morning, 
when a creak upon the staircase fell upon his ears. 

He looked up: descending, and coming towards him, 
were two elegant ladies. One was tall and ravishingly 
dark; the other shorter and most divinely fair. In her 
he recognized the little lady of the yellow two-seater! 

She smiled at him. 

“I told you we should meet again, Mr. Courtenay,” 
said she, laughing. 

Mr. Courtenay gazed upon her with an open-mouthed 
glare of uncomprehending imbecility. 

“John Hammerden,” she continued illuminatingly, “is 
my father.” 


54 


THE BIG HEART 


“Your father. . . .” 

Mr. Patrick Courtenay sat weakly and passed a weary 
hand over his abrased forehead. 

“It beats Bannager,” whispered he, with the far-away 
stare of a lost intelligence; “and he beat the divil.” 


CHAPTER VI: Echoes an old Story and forwards a 
New 

W HATEVER transpired between the two men in 
the interview that took place in the big bay- 
windowed study, the import was undoubtedly serious; 
so much was certain from the grim look that had settled 
upon their faces. 

In particular did Mr. Courtenay look especially grave 
and thoughtful. 

He had learned many things in the course of that hour 
of confidence—many things of that ten years’ strip of the 
big man’s life that began in an Arizona mining camp 
and ended in the condemned cell of a Texan prison. 

He had learned many things of John Hammerden; and 
of the late Earl of Racedene a good many more. He had 
moreover been informed as to the connecting link which 
bound these three curious personalities together—Race¬ 
dene, Hammerden and the half-breed Indian, Bart How- 
arth. That link was a woman; a beautiful woman: Lona, 
the half-breed sister of Howarth. 

That Racedene had wronged and brutally misused this 
Lona Howarth was certain; that he had not had a seri¬ 
ous hand in her startling disappearance was a matter for 
conjecture; but that he had married her, under the deadly 
gun of her half-breed brother there was no doubt at all. 

“Let me tell it to you in my own way,” Hammerden 
had said grimly, “and I think you’ll see what Howarth'*s 
game is with me—and possibly others.” 

“Others!” echoed Courtenay. “What others could 
they involve?” 


55 



56 


THE BIG HEART 


“You’ll hear,” answered Mr. Hammerden grimly. 
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, Bart Howarth and 
those with him mean to make this European trip a very 
payable proposition. 

“When Racedene first came to me,” he went on, “he 
came out of Wyoming Territory. He called himself 
Royal then—Eric Royal—a family name, I found later, 
of the Racedenes. I’d been working a small gold pros¬ 
pect outside Tombstone, Arizona, and it looked like 
turning out something decent. Royal had some money to 
invest; and wanted to come in with me. I was only too 
glad. It didn’t take me long to find out what sort of a 
partner I’d struck; what with drink, women, and other 
little deviltries he favoured, I had it borne home to me 
pretty quick and frequent. 

“He hadn’t been with me long when who should put 
in an appearance but the big half-breed from the Wyom¬ 
ing Territory, Howarth. He was looking for a Britisher 
calling himself Ewart Rathlone, and he was looking for 
him with a gun.” 

“Racedene was the man?” interjected Courtenay breath¬ 
lessly. 

“Oh, he was the man right enough,” replied Ham¬ 
merden, “and soon the ‘breed’ got him. But not before, 
after a pack of lies Racedene told me, I’d fallen foul of 
Howarth and broke him up pretty badly. 

“Well,” continued Mr. Hammerden, “Howarth got 
back on me later over Racedene’s murder. He killed 
Racedene: shot him for revenge; and for what he knew 
he’d got in his wallet. However, after the beating up I 
gave him, he disappeared for a time. Racedene and I had 
a big row, and I cleared him out, bag and baggage. 

“He found an old shack perched up in a canyon about 
a mile from the claim. Then Howarth suddenly turned 
up again—and with him as fine a looking half-caste girl 



ECHOES AN OLD STORY 


57 


as you’d see in the whole of the Territory—his sister 
Lona. He got after Racedene quick, and, to cut it short, 
he married the girl—married her in front of two wit¬ 
nesses : an old placer miner called Jerry Raynor, and 
myself.” 

“What happened then?” asked Courtenay breathlessly. 

“God alone knows,” answered Hammerden; “except 
that the unfortunate wretch suffered every hell of brutality 
possible to inflict upon a woman by a swine of Racedene’s 
class. In his drinking fits he used to tie her up and flog 
her with a raw hide quirt.” 

“Good God!” ejaculated Patrick, tense with horror. 

“And she was expecting her baby, don’t forget—his 
child. Ye gods!” Hammerden sat stiffly in silence for 
a moment; Mr. Courtenay noting the great knots of 
muscle come up upon his clenched hands. 

“And then?” he asked. 

“The next thing we heard was that she was dead— 
died in childbirth. He’d got an old Mexican hag up 
there looking after her, and she bore him out. Anyhow, 
they buried her away up the canyon, and no one ever saw 
Lona Howarth—or Lona Royal—again, dead or alive. 
Poor devil!” he muttered pityingly; “poor devil!” 

“You think she was murdered?” whispered Paddy. 

“Ah,” returned Mr. Hammerden cryptically, “I’d give 
something to know. Just at that time a registered letter 
came for him from a firm of English solicitors; and the 
next I heard of the hound was a letter from a place in 
Wiltshire, ‘Claverings.’ He’d come into his title—and 
pledged me to secrecy. I was the only living one that 
knew the connection between Eric Royal of Arizona and 
the Earl of Racedene. 

“Some months after this I struck gold; and struck it 
big—a bonanza. I sold out my share to a syndicate; but 
Racedene in England held on to his for bigger terms— 



58 


THE BIG HEART 


he had a Jew’s nose for money. I packed up and lit out 
for Texas and the oil-fields just looming up big; glad 
to be rid of the mine and him. I was a bit previous,” he 
said shortly. 

“Friends in England, who had charge of my kiddie 
Penelope—I was a widower even at that day—used to 
send me an occasional paper; and in one, a Morning Post, 
I saw an announcement of the marriage of Eric Some¬ 
thing—Earl of Racedene—to an Honourable Miss Felicia 
Blakeley. In an accompanying illustrated was a photo¬ 
graph of the young Countess.” 

Fie paused, and for a moment or two sat staring out the 
window across the lawns: a look in his eyes that Mr. 
Courtenay was at a loss to interpret. 

“I thought her,” he said slowly, “the most beautiful 
and gentle-faced woman I had ever seen in my life; and 
I prayed for her, Courtenay; I prayed to the just God 
that something would strike that dog out of her life— 
before it was too late. You see,” he said earnestly, “I 
remembered Lona.” 

“I should have felt like killing him,” said Courtenay. 

“I did,” answered Hammerden tersely. “More than 
that, I began to think out how.” 

Courtenay glanced at him aghast. 

The big man gave a bitter laugh. “Yes,” he said, “I 
did. Nice evidence against myself in the light of what 
followed, isn’t it? Well,” he snapped suddenly, “I didn’t 
kill him; but, by God, I meant to.” 

He leaned forward and touched Courtenay upon the 
arm; the fervent sincerity of the man brooked no doubt. 

“Courtenay,” he said, “remember I was a lonely man— 
cut off from everything that appealed to me; save for a 
little kiddie that wouldn’t have known me for her father 
if she’d seen me. I fell in love with the portrait of that 





ECHOES AN OLD STORY 


59 


woman—the woman that the biggest blackguard I’d ever 
known on earth had made his slave.” 

Again he paused, his eyes shining. 

“Perhaps it began in pity,” he resumed, with a shake 
of his massive head. “God knows; I don’t; but before 
long it was love —the love that a man has for the woman 
instinct tells him is his. You wouldn’t take me to be an 
imaginative man, Courtenay, but I am.” 

“I—I think I can understand,” breathed Courtenay 
with deep sympathy. 

“It was said that he came back to see to his mining in¬ 
terests,” went on Hammerden. “In a sense that’s true; 
but it was I that brought him out.” 

“You?” gasped Mr. Courtenay, staring in amazement. 

“Yes. I knew the money greed that was in him. I 
cabled; that there was a fortune there if he chose to come. 
Well, he took the bait, rushed out to Arizona and sold out 
of the claim, then followed me up. All as I wanted it! 
Except for one thing.” 

“And that was?” 

“That he had to run cunning as usual—and he never 
let me know he was in the States, or even proposed com¬ 
ing. I didn’t know he was there until I saw his dead 
body in Dallas.” 

“Plow do you account for the revolver?” questioned 
Mr. Courtenay, pointing to the weapon that had the in¬ 
itials “A. H.” on the handle, which lay upon the table. 

“I’d missed that when Racedene went to live in the 
shack up the canyon. I thought he’d taken it among his 
gear, and never troubled. I knew later who did steal it.” 

“Who?” 

“Howarth. He’d been about Tombstone at the time 
Racedene arrived to sell his mine; knew what he’d get for 
it; and knew also that he carried it on him. Racedene 


60 


THE BIG HEART 


would never trust to American mining banks; thought 
them two-spot affairs. No; Howarth followed him into 
Texas; shot him (he was justified in that) ; cleaned him 
out and left the tell-tale revolver pointing fairly at one 
man as the murderer.” 

“Who identified the gun as your property?” 

The big man laughed shortly: “Howarth. He swore 
to having seen it in my camp—and on me—many times. 
He was quite right. Well, you know of the trial—and 
the result. Fortunately, except for a working float, I’d 
always sent my money across to England—so that when I 
broke jail and got back here, I was solid to start again. 
You know the result of that, too; there isn’t a stronger 
man in Finance.” 

“And now?” queried Mr. Courtenay. 

“And now/’ said Mr. Hammerden with compressed 
lips, “here I am; and here is Bart Howarth; and this gun 
and all the old story; and there’s hell in it for every one 
all round—if it can’t be stopped.” 

Mr. Courtenay thought a moment. 

“Was this the reason of your interest in the Countess 
of Racedene and her affairs?” he asked gently. 

Mr. Hammerden nodded slowly: the far-away look 
stealing back into his eyes. 

“Yes,” he said gently. “I’d heard rumours. I knew 
that her life was something of a struggle—the estate 
encumbered to the hilt; and I wanted, in some way, to 
help without being known in the business. I’d have 
found that way through you.” 

“You do not know her personally—have never spoken 
to her?” 

“No. I’ve seen her once or twice at a distance. 
Nearer than that I’ve never dared to go. I couldn’t have 
trusted myself. I love her so much.” 



ECHOES AN OLD STORY 


61 


“Why,” demanded Paddy, “why shouldn’t you bring 
love to her as anny man?” 

“Why?” echoed Hammerden. “Why—you damned 
fool, can’t you see? Me!—the man who was tried and 
found guilty of the murder of that other brute. God, 
what an ending to her happiness!” 

“I see,” said Paddy nervously. “Of course. Of 
course. One must think for her.” 

“What else do I think of?” demanded Hammerden. 
“Do you think I care for myself ?” 

“You can take this from me, Courtenay,” went on 
Mr. Hammerden, that indomitable jaw of his thrust for¬ 
ward. “The John Hammerden that Howarth and his 
friends have to fight now isn’t the Arthur Haybridge 
they beat before. Pm a fighter; and once I start I don’t 
quit. I’ll fight them in and out of every court in the 
States, till I put the wristlets on the man that did what I 
was found guilty of.” 

He pointed across a lawn to where, arm-in-arm, 
Penelope Hammerden and the stately Veronica Schorn- 
hurst were strolling, accompanied by the ubiquitous 
Punch. 

“They’re counting on the kid—and the shame and dis¬ 
grace of it for her —to make me come over quietly with 
their price. Well, that wouldn’t do it, because my 
Penny is as game as they breed them, and she’d stick with 
me in the fight. No; there’s another bludgeon in their 
hands, but it’s going to bring me to my knees, un¬ 
less . . .” 

He chewed in savage thought upon the end of his cigar 
for a moment. 

“And what,” inquired Mr. Courtenay, with a frown 
of perplexity on his bruised forehead, “what might that 
bludgeon be?” 


62 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. Hammerden tossed his cigar into the fireplace. 

“Lady Racedene,” he answered briefly. 

“I can’t quite see ...” began Patrick hesitat¬ 
ingly. 

The big man leaned across the table and touched him 
upon the arm. 

“Does it occur to you,” he asked slowly, “that as Race- 
dene lied about nearly every act of his life, that he might 
have done the same about his wife Lona’s death? That 
Lona, being near her travail, might have escaped from 
the shack in the canyon back to her breeds in Wyoming 
Territory—that her child might be born in the tepees of 
its Redskin ancestry? That Racedene, afraid to follow 
and tired of her, might, could easily, have bribed the 
Mexican hag to give out her death? He cleared the 
country right away—and married again. He was killed 
as soon almost as he got back—by Howarth I’m certain. 
Suppose Lona is not dead, and that Howarth has brought 
her here? Suppose the brains behind them have found 
out who Lona rightly is—who her child is, if it’s a boy? 
Now can you see what the big game is?” 

“Good God!” whispered Patrick. “That unfortunate 
lady!” He rose hurriedly. “It’s got to be stopped!” he 
exclaimed. 

“It will be!’ said Mr. Hammerden with narrowing 
eyes. 

“How? And who by?” demanded Paddy. 

“You,” the big man fairly hissed at him. “You, with 
all the help you want; all the money that’s behind me, and 
carte blanche to spend it.” He rose, wincing, upon his 
sprained foot, and extended an appealing hand. 

“It’s the woman I love, Courtenay,” he said hoarsely, 
“and I’m helpless. You’re not the man to see a woman 
who’s suffered as she has ruined, blasted body and soul 
by swine like these.” His eyes wandered out to the 




ECHOES AN OLD STORY 


63 


lawn again. “The kid, too, there couldn’t help but be 
pain for her, whatever came of it.” 

Mr. Courtenay turned his eyes in the direction of the 
big man’s. The lovely lady of the motor-car was seated 
on the grass; and in her lap lay the head of the disrepu¬ 
table-looking canine that belonged to him. With a wistful 
sigh he turned and gripped the great fist of the man be¬ 
fore him, and grinned through his swollen lips. 

“You’re right,” he said with a whimsical twist. “I 
could not. I’m born for trouble; and I might as well be 
getting into it this way as anny other. Maybe I’m a 
damn fool; but I can’t help it.” 

“Courtenay,” said the big man earnestly, “there never 
was a fool yet that wouldn’t rush in to help a good 
woman in trouble. It’s the clever ones that stand aside 
and let her down.” 

“ ’Tis the clever ones—the Big Heads—that rule the 
world,” averred Mr. Courtenay dubiously. 

Mr. Hammerden shook his head. 

“Maybe,” he answered; “but it’s the damned fools— 
the Big Hearts—that make it fit to live in.” 


CHAPTER VII: Spodani’s cafe da napoli — and 
Myrtle 

I N a quiet, somewhat hidden, and not unduly over-lit 
corner of Soho stands Spodani’s Restaurant and Cafe 
da Napoli. 

Were one to confer with the gentlemen whose busi¬ 
ness it is to keep wary and unceasing eye over the un¬ 
desirables that throng in from New York, Paris, and 
other continental breeding-grounds of the brainily pred- 
atorious, they would have answered with a shrug and 
a negative shake of their shrewd-looking heads. 

Those walking Baedekers of the London Underworld 
would have vouched for Spodani’s as a very uninterest¬ 
ing brasserie —certainly not a rendezvous of the furtive¬ 
eyed brigade. 

Mr. Joseph Dobson of “The Yard” certainly knew of 
the place; the only thing he’d ever found there, upon an 
unheralded venture of investigation, was acute dyspepsia, 
which in his opinion was all that any one was likely to 
acquire in that garlic-scented hole. “Bull’’ Dargan, who 
kept an exceedingly icy grey eye over the same class of 
persons and places, on behalf of our cousins across the 
Atlantic, would have corroborated his English confrere. 
He would have bluntly asserted that Spodani’s hash joint 
had nix to it—it was on the blink. With regard to 
Spodani’s, however,—strange as it may seem—they were 
wrong. 

It was intensely characteristic of the Honourable Mr. 
William Blakeley that he knew Spodani’s, was, indeed, 

something of a persona grata there. He had dined there 

64 


SPODANI’S CAFE DA NAPOLI 


65 


upon many adventurous occasions; generally in female so¬ 
ciety; society that Spodani was man of the world enough 
to know he would not care to be seen abroad with in 
other places than this. Which, argued host Spodani, 
was entirely the Honourable Signor’s affair. But as a 
patrona —as one of the great Aristocracy—he was a great 
asset to Spodani; as a blind he was invaluable. 

Not that the Honourable Bill had ever penetrated those 
upper and inner shrines where lurked furtive-eyed mys¬ 
tery. 

More than once had he brushed shoulders upon the 
stairs, when venturing in search of a dark and gloomy 
cubicle wherein Spodani permitted those of his patrons 
sufficiently eccentric as to wish to wash their hands be¬ 
fore meat, to do so. Strange nocturnal beings, viewed 
in the humid flicker of a gas-jet; but who always gave 
way with polite apologies in many languages before the 
tall man in evening-dress with the ugly face, who did 
not look like a waiter. 

He knew also that above, and about that dark landing, 
were other rooms, possibly filled with other customers of 
Spodani’s of every description. Whispers of conversa¬ 
tion lingered sometimes from doors quietly opened and 
shut again. Sometimes the high pitch of a woman’s 
note expressing anything—or nothing. But always an 
atmosphere of stealth about that landing—and above. 
The feel of lurking shadows—of unseen but keenly- 
watching eyes. 

Curious, too,—not that the Honourable Bill had ever 
noticed it, or any one else for the matter of that—but such 
rooms exhibited at no time light to the street. Above the 
Cafe floor at Spodani’s was gloom—Cimmerian and un¬ 
blinking. 

Upon the evening of Mr. Courtenay’s unpremeditated 
visit to Sunbury, Mr. Blakeley had engaged himself to 






66 


THE BIG HEART 


take a young lady out to dine; and in most vague fash¬ 
ion “do something” afterwards. 

The evening was close—damnably so; and the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill waited near the place of assignation and won¬ 
dered why the devil he did so. 

At his club during the morning, he had rung up the 
number of a friend—that number was engaged. Thrice 
he returned to the attack, but upon each occasion the in¬ 
visible queen who reigned over the transmission of speech 
informed him, with leisured haughtiness, of the failure 
of their combined efforts. 

“Oh, dammit!” ejaculated the Honourable Bill ir¬ 
ritably. 

“You can’t have it all your own way,” snapped the in¬ 
visible Voice. 

“Dearest,” said Mr. Blakeley wearily, “do not be en- 
angered with me, or I shall sob in the—er—the receiver 
gadgett—the doin’s.” 

“Shall I give you a call?” asked the Voice. 

“No,” responded Mr. Blakeley; “you can talk to me 
instead. Your voice soothes me.” 

“You’re not so well, are you?” inquired the Voice a 
trifle sarcastically. 

“My health,” assured Mr. Blakeley, “is perfect. And 
how do you find yourself these troublous times?” 

“Oh—fairish,” the Voice came over the wires. 
“You’re ringing from the Junior Service, aren’t you?” 

The Honourable Bill corroborating this statement, the 
Voice continued upon a tentative note: 

“What’s your name?” 

“Herbert,” he answered, with glib untruthfulness. 

“Would you like to take me out to dinner tonight, Her¬ 
bert?’’ inquired the Voice. “Dinner—and something 
after?” 

“I should love it—passionately.” 



SPODANI’S CAFE DA NAPOLI 


67 


“Shall I dress?” asked the Voice. 

“Be as well, wouldn’t it?” suggested the Honourable 
Bill. “Police are so bally officious now-a-days.” 

“Meet you at the ’Dilly tube,” went on the Voice, 
“seven-thirty. I shall wear green. Oh! my name’s 
Myrtle. You’ll be there?” added the Voice anxiously. 
“You won’t slip me up?” 

“I shall be there,” assured Mr. Blakeley solemnly. 

“How shall I know you?” 

“Look for the ugliest thing over six foot that you’ve 
ever beheld,” replied Mr. Blakeley wearily. “When 
found, that’ll be me.” 

“You’ve an awfully nice voice gushed the Voice. 

The Honourable Bill sighed. “I’d love to let Gerrard 
double-one-nine-four hear it,” he observed. 

“Oh!” snorted the Voice indignantly; then whispered 
quietly “Seven-thirty?” 

“Ye-es,” said Mr. Blakeley, yawning. “Ye-es; and 
again yes; and all the bally way home— yes.” 

A second later his friend’s voice bellowed into his ear, 
demanding who the . . . ! He was a naval officer. 

Came then the hour, and here was the man; in two 
minds to hail a taxi and depart off to a fight he had sud¬ 
denly remembered. 

Where was Myrtle? Bill wished her no harm, but 
had any indigent person approached him at that moment 
with the news that Myrtle had inadvertently fallen down 
a drain and was no more, said person would have found 
him or herself handsomely rewarded. 

Just as he was upon the point of re-considering the 
matter of the glove-fight, he found himself faced by a 
dazzling apparition in emerald-green. She was hatless, 
and the Honourable Bill gazed in amazement upon an 
elaborately-coiffured mane of flaming red hair. Her 
skirts were ultra-short, showing a very shapely knee. 



68 


THE BIG HEART 


In addition he noticed that her lips stood out as an espe¬ 
cial feature of her face—matching her hair in suggestion 
and very nearly in colour; her eyes were narrow, very 
green, and plainly calculating. 

“Ye gods!” thought the Honourable Bill, with a furtive 
glance around to see that no one he knew was in sight. 
“I’ve struck it!” 

“ ’Scuse me,” said the Green Person, “are you Her¬ 
bert?” 

For a second a wild idea of disowning Herbert oc¬ 
curred to Mr. Blakeley. While rapidly turning this in 
his mind, the lady went calmly on: 

“You’re the tallest thing about,” she murmured, “and 
the ugliest I’ve seen.” 

The Honourable Bill had to grin. 

“Then I suppose it must be me,” he said with a grimace. 

He hailed a passing taxi and bundled her unceremoni¬ 
ously into it, praying before the Lord that he was not 
an observed man. 

“We’ll feed at a rat-pit I know,” he said explanatorily, 
“and go on to some—some jazz place afterwards.” 

“Right-ho,” said Myrtle, leaning back comfortably. 
“Sorry I kept you waiting. Couldn’t find my damn 
cigarette-holder anywhere.” 

Mr. Blakeley offered no comment, but mentally thanked 
his stars that Myrtle did not favour a pipe. 

“Go-ish frock you’re wearing,” he ventured, eyeing 
the vivid green askance. 

“Ye-es,” drawled Myrtle, “not so rotten. Feller gave 
me the whole rig-out for a birthday present. Not a bad 
sort—his wife played hell when she found out about it. 
Found the bill in his pocket—you know. Damn silly, 
isn’t it?” 

Mr. Blakeley understood himself to be observing that 



SPODANI’S CAFE DA NAPOLI 


69 


it was the height of human folly. He didn’t quite know 
what was; but it was all the same. 

“In the Guards, he was,’’ went on Myrtle; “or said he 
was. Soldiers are such rotten liars, aren’t they?” 

The Honourable Bill corroborated this judgment heart- 

iiy- 

“What are you?” she asked suddenly. 

“A politician,” he answered promptly. 

“You look it,” retorted Myrtle, tensely satirical. “I 
don’t think—pa-pa !” 

At Spodani’s the arrival of Mr. Blakeley and his fair 
inamorata caused somewhat of a sensation. When she 
leisurely removed her cloak and wrinkled up her sharp 
little nose in evident disapproval of Spodani’s, the sensa¬ 
tion was even greater. 

The upper portion of the gift of the military taradiddler 
took some finding; when found it appeared to be two 
narrow panels that ran up to her armpits. The V they 
formed back and front was so large as to be quite un¬ 
necessary. Back and front, she was as bare as the day 
she was born—and nearly as dimply. The cloying scent 
that emanated from her haunted the thick consomme at 
Spodani’s for weeks. 

The Honourable Mr. Blakeley, upon recovering his 
breath, ordered a special dinner, with wines according to 
the lady’s taste; stepped away out of pink, shell-like ear¬ 
shot to confer deeply and mysteriously with Spodani upon 
the subject of names and identifications; drew another 
deep breath, and plunged into the gaiety of the evening, 
with the resignation of a non-swimmer diving into a 
swirling flood. 

As a result of the intimate conversation with Spodani, 
that exalted personage waited upon Mr. Blakeley and his 
fair guest with his own hands. Being considerably out 



70 


THE BIG HEART 


of practice at such menial work, he waited with excessive 
clumsiness. Had he not done so, had Spodani’s hand re¬ 
tained its old surety, this story might have been differently 
told. 

But it was ordained that Spodani was to serve clumsily; 
and Enrico Spodani did that which it had been ordained 
that he should do. 

A collision with a short stout gentlemen from Milan 
and his female encumbrance brought forth many excited 
ejaculations of ferocious sound; many bows, apologies, 
and half-a-pound of rich ripe salmi over Mr. Blakeley’s 
hands. Mr. Blakeley, after a rapid, quick-fire expression 
of his opinion of the apparently demented Spodani, re¬ 
tired up the dark stairway to the cubicle in which was 
concealed the soap and dubious towel. 

In a way the Honourable Bill was not sorry; it gave 
him a moment’s respite from the languorous chypre-laden 
odour exhaling from Myrtle. She, dear thing, had ex¬ 
pressed herself upon the catastrophe with the startling 
clarity of expression of a goaded Sergeant-Major. Her 
vocabulary was vitriolic. 

Upon the black little landing the Honourable Bill 
paused, lit a match and a cigarette, and found the coal¬ 
hole he sought, and in it the articles he needed. He did 
not hurry. No one would run off with Myrtle; if they 
should—salute to Adventurers! 

He washed carefully; and, the operation concluded, 
loafed silently finishing his cigarette. 

A door suddenly opened out of darkness, gave him an 
instant’s impression of a smoke-blurred room; then closed 
again. The Honourable Bill stood transfixed; rigid with 
amazement; for in that fleeting second’s glimpse into the 
murky room, from it had floated, and floated most un¬ 
mistakably, a name that held him gripped. It was that of 
his sister Felicia, the Countess of Racedene. 


SPODANPS CAFE DA NAPOLI 


71 


He knew there was no mistake; the name was too un¬ 
common for that. What the deuce was it all about? 
Who in that smoke-fogged rat-hole was using his sister’s 
name—knew of her, even? 

Burglary?—the town house was let. Wiltshire? 
Country-house robberies were not unknown; and there 
were a good many things of value at “Claverings.” He 
was not sorry the hefty “Fighting Padre” had gone to 
take up his residence there. 

Buttoning his dinner jacket, he stepped noiselessly to 
the door and applied his ear to the key-hole. There was 
a hum of voices; but nothing clear—discernable. Voices 
—smooth and English in tone; voices nasal, raucous and 
unquestionably American; voices—or one voice—unmis¬ 
takably Italian in its high-pitched volubility. 

What the devil had this herd to do with Felicia? 

Suddenly, upon a sharp Yankee note, he heard the 
name again: Racedene; distinctly; no possibility of error! 

He stood up, and thought hard for a minute. This 
scum, hidden away in a back room at Spodani’s, and his 
sister! He could make nothing of it. With an im¬ 
patient jerk of his shoulders, he bent his ear again to 
the keyhole; this time to catch another name he knew— 
John Hammerden! 

What had John Hammerden, the “X. Y. Z.” of that 
precious advertisement, to do with this lot—and Felicia? 
The Honourable Bill decided upon one thing quickly: he 
must know who was in that room; see them; mark their 
faces if need be for future reference. One good look 
at them would suffice him. He could think the job over 
later: Courtenay and he would perhaps look into it. But 
to see them was imperative. 

With a sudden impulsive start, the Honourable Bill 
laid his hand upon the door-handle, turned it silently, 
and stepped unconcernedly into the room. 



CHAPTER VIII: Which Resembles somewhat the 
Fortune Revealed in a Lady's Tea-cup. A fair Man 
— Love—a Quarrel—more Love—sudden Death — 
and a dark Man to the House with hasty News 

M R. JOHN HAMMERDEN, for all that he had so 
readily pronounced himself imaginative, was not 
to be taken by any means as impulsive; he was, in fact, 
very, very much the reverse. 

Upon the morning of his engagement of Mr. Courte¬ 
nay, Mr. Hammerden’s dainty little daughter no doubt 
considered herself to be the deus ex machina; the lever 
that moved her father to that desirable end—as, in a 
sense, she was; but Mr. Hammerden, listening amusedly 
to her heated panegyrics upon the Celtic “Galahad,” was 
nevertheless thinking; and making his own decision with 
his usual unerring rapidity. Penelope was merely in¬ 
troducing to his notice the very man he needed. 

Mr. Hammerden, summing up his man later, had been 
right in his judgment. Here, within three days, had 
Courtenay, at considerable pains to himself, proved him 
so! He had gone about a dubious task with tact and 
delicacy; what part luck had played in his meeting with 
Lady Racedene was, to Mr. Hammerden, of no moment— 
he had got there. In the doing of it he had revolted at 
his job; played the honest part and said so frankly; 
again obviously to his own detriment. He proved him¬ 
self a man in whom the dictates of honour and chivalry 
towards a woman were imperishable. 

A fighter, too, considered the big man grimly; taking 

upon himself an ugly matter of no concern to him out of 

72 


RESEMBLES FORTUNE REVEALED 73 


loyalty for an absent man whose service he proposed 
to leave forthwith. 

A man to be trusted; therefore Mr. Hammerden, fac¬ 
ing a situation that meant rather more to him than money 
or position, had trusted him—implicitly. 

This blackmail scheme which he sensed behind the com¬ 
ing of the half-breed Howarth, might prove to be octopus¬ 
like; the tentacles of it reaching far, and carrying untold 
vileness in the obliteration of its inky spume. A death 
threat to him; to another, worse. 

Brooding grimly in his chair, after dinner that evening, 
the big man pondered over a fighting plan. He was 
honest in his declaration to Courtenay that for himself 
he feared nothing and cared less; but . . . there were 
others ... in particular one . . . who, once dragged 
Humpty-Dumpty-like from the high wall of security into 
the slime of a dead man’s sins, could never be reinstated. 

Two pieces of information gleaned from Courtenay 
made him nod with satisfaction. The one, the existence 
of her devoted, hard-featured brother; the other, of the 
immediate establishment in Wiltshire of the Reverend 
Mr. Brian Desmond as tutor to her little son. 

Men these; not to be put lightly aside, whatever the 
odds, where a woman’s honour and fair name were the 
gamble. Big Hearts; who would be in—battered or not 
—at the finish. 

Well, there must be secrecy—that for her sake was 
essential; they must do the work themselves—and in 
silence. The other side would not yell their business 
abroad! Once public, their power of blackmail was gone 
—the lever broken in their hands. 

Courtenay must lead—with all Hammerden’s power, 
money, and brain behind him. If he wanted help, he 
must pick his own men; men to be trusted; and bind them 
to secrecy. 


74* 


THE BIG HEART 


A sudden flash of memory recalled to him the room¬ 
ful of applicants as they had been described to him by 
Courtenay, who but two days since had waited upon his 
“X. Y. Z.” advertisement: hard-bitten desperadoes of 
good blood; gentlemen of breeding, of tested courage; 
that would walk into such an affair with a laugh; the 
same laugh that had carried them through in the boxing¬ 
ring, or a desperate battle on the football-field. The 
gaunt, keen-eyed Major, with his cutting of throats, the 
wife and the two kids. The idea amused him. 

“And by Heck!” growled the big man, getting painfully 
to his feet and limping towards the bay-window, “it may 
come his way before long: that, or something damned 
near it.” 

For a long time he stood there, gazing out across 
the lawns, lost in thought; until the voice of Mrs. Jacob 
J. van Tulst Schornhurst impinged stridently upon the 
soft stillness of the summer evening. Her remarks as 
she approached, seemingly directed towards the ears of 
her complaisant husband, appeared to be in effect that she 
approved highly of the manners and general deportment 
of Mr. Patrick D’Alroy Courtenay. He was aristocratic, 
and connected with the Best People—undoubtedly so. 

Courtenay, urged by Mr. Hammerden, and still more 
insistently by his fair chatelaine, had taken up temporary 
residence at “Braylings.” A chauffeur having been dis¬ 
patched for his necessary apparel, he was to remain a 
guest indefinitely; at any rate until they had decided upon 
some line of action. 

A call, in the yellow car with his lovely hostess (an 
altogether delightful hour), upon the nearest disciple 
of Galen had ameliorated the condition of Mr. Courte¬ 
nay’s features considerably, though time alone, he was 
assured, could restore them to the pristine shape and 


RESEMBLES FORTUNE REVEALED 75 


freshness they had worn prior to his visit to Lombard 
Street. 

At dinner that evening Mr. Courtenay, from no motive 
more darkly ulterior than that of an innate chivalry, de¬ 
voted himself with benign assiduity to the amusement 
and entertainment of the massive and majestic Mrs. 
Jacob J. van Tulst Schornhurst. 

This business he carried to so successful an issue that 
Patrick was gazed upon by the lady’s family with the 
awe and deference due to a wizard. Upon no less than 
three separate occasions had Mrs. Jacob J. relaxed her 
van Tulst hauteur, and laughed outright with the genuine 
heartiness of the true Shannon blood. 

Mr. Patrick, in addition to the stories he told of all 
the aristocracy he had ever known—or heard of—found 
one or two that tickled the risibilities of the Money King. 
They were mainly concerning the enterprises of a gentle¬ 
man of Semitic origin to whom had been entrusted the 
arduous duties of batman to Mr. Courtenay during the 
Big Bother, and amused Jacob J. until he chuckled in¬ 
ordinately : a subdued form of mirth nearly as rare as 
his wife’s Shannonian guffaw. 

Mr. Courtenay had indeed achieved social success; and 
in Mrs. Schornhurst’s approbation honours were thrust 
upon him which he wore without the faintest semblance 
of a blush. In his benighted ignorance he had merely 
thought she wasn’t a bad old sort, and that it must be 
dashed uncomfortable to be that size. Such is greatness. 

“A very admirable young man, Jacob,” boomed the 
notes of the advancing Mrs. Jacob J. “Very amusing 
and vurry highly connected.” 

“I must get him to write me down some of those 
Abraham yarns,” said Jacob J. “Some of those would 
tell good among my friends in New York.” 




76 


THE BIG HEART 


“ ’Tis the greatest pity about his automobile accident,” 
pursued Mrs. Jacob J. 

Jacob J., hidden by the shadow of a great elm, grinned. 

“Thrown,” continued Mrs. Schornhurst horrifically, 
“right on to his face. It must have been a terrible 
shock.” 

Again the Money King smiled, and rubbed his chin 
thoughtfully. His humorous deep-set eyes twinkled. 

“Must have been,” he agreed slowly, “to have bounced 
him back right on to his knuckles. Terrible!” 

“Terrible indeed,” echoed his spouse. “He might have 
broken his neck!” 

“Or somebody else’s,” amended Jacob J. whimsically. 
“He cert’nly is an amusing boy—and a fighter. I like a 
fighter; can generally stand pat on what they say or 
do.” 

“You do not mean to insinuate, Jacob,” uttered the 
massive lady with tremendous dignity, “that Mr. Courte¬ 
nay has received his injuries in a low, common fight?” 

Mr. Hammerden, in his position of enforced audience 
to this dualogue, listened with some keenness to the 
opinion given by his friend. 

Mr. Schornhurst paused over his reply. 

“Search me,” he answered oracularly. “I’m no Sher¬ 
lock Holmes. But I go as far as this, Mad’leen,” he 
continued impressively, “that should the return bout come 
off while I am in this effete, bed-ridden country, I will 
hand over my wad to see it without a tear.” 

His wife gazed upon him with blank exasperation. “I 
suppose you know what you’re talking about, Jacob 
Schornhurst,” she remarked, with a sniff of asperity, 
“for it’s more than I do.” 

“Which,” commented that gentleman, “is perhaps all 
to the good.” 

They strolled past in complete ignorance of the prox- 


RESEMBLES FORTUNE REVEALED 77 


imity of their chuckling host. At a juncture of the 
path with a rose bed of two centuries’ cultivation, the 
little plutocrat and his “Mad’leen” turned, and slowly 
retraced their steps. Of a sudden, without warning, 
a thought impaled Mrs. Jacob J.—a thought keen to stab 
as the stiletto of a lurking assassin. 

“Jacob!” s h e uttered, clutching at his arm with a spas¬ 
modic jerk that made him jump and quiver in every 
nerve. 

“I wish to God,” hissed Jacob J. with a vehemence 
totally foreign to his usual demeanour, “that you wouldn’t 
do that! Remember my cursed dyspepsia! What’s bit¬ 
ten you now?” 

“Veronica!” gasped Mrs. Schornhurst. 

“What is there to her?” demanded her husband irately. 
“She was all right at dinner-time. Ate like a—a young 
horse! No dyspepsia about her!” 

“I’m not thinking of her stomach,” said Mrs. Schorn¬ 
hurst in agonized tones. 

“Nor mine either!” snorted the Money King. 
“Where’s those pills, while I think of ’em?” 

“What,” continued his wife in the same stricken 
fashion, “what if this Mr. Courtenay has some matri¬ 
monial designs upon—upon our Veronica!” 

“What if blazes!” returned Jacob J. with cryptic terse¬ 
ness. “The feller’s only seen her five minutes, and— 
and . . .” He paused, and eyed her with what would 
have been whole-hearted contempt if the object of his 
vision had been other than “Mad’leen.” “Mother,” he 
said slowly ,“for a woman who ought to have common- 
sense, you’re the limit! On this Veronica and House of 
Lords stunt you’ve got more rats in your attic than a 
monkey’s got fleas! I’m tired of it! You worry me!” 

“You’re talking downright vulgar, Jacob,” accused his 
wife furiously. 


78 


THE BIG HEART 


“Maybe I am,” retorted Mr. Schornhurst. “I m sick 
of this Duke trail.” 

Mrs. Jacob J. van Tulst Schornhurst stared at him 
haughtily through her tortoiseshell lorgnettes. 

“You don't need to glare at one through those gig- 
lamps, Mad’leen,” continued Jacob J. grimly; “they don t 
phase me any. When I married you, you wouldn t have 
known the name of them; and if any one had come down 
our street using ’em, they’d have had bricks thrown at 
them.” 

“Low!” repeated Mrs. Schornhurst, addressing the 
moonlight heavens, scornfully. “Downright low.” 

“I don’t care a cent whether I’m high and middle as 
well! I eat a square meal and enjoy it,” went on Jacob 
J. passionately, “about once in every two years. So 
sure as I do, it’s the occasion of some such hullabaloo as 
this.” 

“I’m not responsible for your dyspepsia,” said Mrs. 
Jacob J., strangely at a loss for words to vanquish her 
rebellious husband. 

The Money King looked at her curiously. 

“No,” he said slowly, “that cert’nly is so. But you 
won’t forget the years I fired down-town counter-lunches 
into my face at thirty seconds a feed, so as I could get 
back making the wad for you and the baby. Well, I 
made it—my way; where I’ve been foolish, p’raps, is 
that I’ve let you spend it your way—without asking 
where the kid came in. That was wrong. But you can 
stand pat on me, Mad’leen, that Veronica is not going 
to be pestered with a selection of ancestral trees she 
don’t fancy. Not on your life! The say-so is hers as 
to who she’ll marry. And that goes—all the time. 
Furthermore . . .” 

“Furthermore,” interpolated Mrs. Jacob J., “you’re 


RESEMBLES FORTUNE REVEALED 79 


talking rubbish. I merely inquired concerning this 
young man. With Veronica's money it is my duty to 
do so.” 

Had Mrs. Jacob J. been able to see through the tortoise¬ 
shell-handled lorgnettes, which she was not, she might 
have noticed the sudden twinkle in her husband’s eye, 
the twitch at the sides of his sternly-cut mouth, and taken 
warning. 

He leant slightly towards her. 

“What was that, Mad’leen?” he inquired softly. 
“Veronica’s what?” 

“Her money!’’ thundered Mrs. Jacob J. 

“Now!” exclaimed Mr. Schornhurst in unbounded 
astonishment. “I didn’t even know she had any. I’ve 
been so busy on Wall Street, I’ve not had time to keep 
pace with home affairs. Has she inherited it? If so,” 
here his eyes twinkled wickedly, “which side of her an¬ 
cestry has come along with the hand-over? The Shan¬ 
nons?”—he paused a moment, eyeing his good wife ques- 
tioningly— “Or maybe,” he uttered with gentle irony, 
“maybe it was the van Tidsts?” 

At which Parthian shot Mrs. Jacob J. van Tulst 
Schornhurst metaphorically broke and fled in scattered 
ranks. In the language of the departed Shannon, “she 
was walloped to a frazzle.” 

“Your—your money, then—if you like,” she stam¬ 
mered wiltingly. 

“Ours,” said Jacob J. firmly. “Ours, Mad’leen. But 
unless Ronny marries the man she wants to—her husband 
won't see enough of it to buy a tin of polish for his patent 
shoes. So that’s that” 

“As for this motor-car acrobat,” went on Mr. Schorn¬ 
hurst, “he’s a nice lad; and a man that’s not afraid to 
do some work for his living. I respect him for that. 




80 


THE BIG HEART 


But I’m not blind; and I believe what my eyes tell me. 
That young gentleman is not giving a thought to our 
Ronny; you can take that from me.” 

“Who ever do you mean, Jacob?” asked his wife ex¬ 
citedly. 

”1 knew a man once,” answered Mr. Schornhurst en¬ 
igmatically, “who got shot through that.” 

“Through what?” demanded Mrs. Jacob J. 

“Minding other people’s business for them,” answered 
the Money King bluntly. 

To which utterance Mrs. Jacob J., with the sense of 
self-preservation that sometimes comes to a baffled and 
defeated woman, merely gave vent to a cryptic “Ah!” 
The principal question that was percolating through her 
still startled brain was to where had the younger genera¬ 
tion disappeared. Could she have seen them, wandering 
along in somewhat disjointed procession along the shad¬ 
owed tow-path, her fears, her maternal anxiety would 
have been greatly alleviated; for her beautiful daughter 
had, with all the delicacy of her sweet nature, removed 
herself as far as was possible from her friend and the 
gallant gentleman who accompanied her. 

She accomplished this by means of a deception which 
did honour to her courage and unshrinking devotion: she 
assisted the blotch-eyed Old Punch in his eager and blood¬ 
thirsty hunt for rats. 

If there was any one thing upon this terrestrial sphere 
that Miss Veronica Schornhurst loathed , that thing was 
a rat! 

The very sound of the bull-terrier’s frenzied snorting, 
plashing and gurgling about the rat-holes near her feet 
terrified her; but she stuck bravely to the post indicated 
as a duty to her friend. Up to the present Old Punch 
had not caught anything; but looming always before her 
was the dread that at any moment he might emerge from 


RESEMBLES FORTUNE REVEALED 81 


the river, and deposit at her dainty Parisian shoes the 
slimy and mangled corpse of a murdered rodent! 

Mr. Patrick and his lovely little vis-a-vis meandered 
slowly on—submerged completely in the heavenly frag¬ 
rance of their own idle dreaming. 

“1 think,” observed Penelope, with an upward glance 
at Mr. Patrick’s irradiated but highly variegated fea¬ 
tures, “I think that perhaps we ought to turn back. 
Don’t you?” 

“I do not,” replied that gentleman with extreme final¬ 
ity 

“Think of your poor face,” urged the little lady. “It 
must be fearfully sore.” 

Mr. Courtenay looked fondly down upon the fluffy 
golden head beneath him. The note of her compassion 
was exceeding sweet. 

“Ah now,” said he, “forget it. ’Tis fresh air it needs. 
The doctor feller said so.” 

“Are you sure?” insisted the golden head’s owner dubi¬ 
ously. 

“I’d take me oath on it,” answered Patrick with un¬ 
blushing prevarication. 

Here Penelope, in observing Mr. Courtenay’s features, 
stumbled across a projecting root, and would have fallen 
but for that gentleman’s timely grip upon her hand. For 
her further safety he continued to hold it; a mode of 
progression that proved eminently satisfactory. Cer¬ 
tainly it opened up his split knuckles a bit, but what was 
that—compared with other things?” 

“I think,” observed Miss Hammerden, “that you’re in¬ 
clined to be a fearfully reckless sort of person.” 

“I am,” agreed Mr. Courtenay; “but it doesn’t matter 
at all.” 

“Why not?” demanded Penelope. 

“Because,” said Patrick with engaging wistfulness, 


82 


THE BIG HEART 


“Eve no one to worry about me. Nobody cares for little 
Paddy.” 

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Penelope, open-eyed. 

“Nobody loves me,” said Patrick. 

“I’m sure everybody does,” said Penelope, with some 
finality. 

“That’s worse than nobody,” assured the gentle¬ 
man. 

“I’m sure plenty of nice people love you. People you 
know individually, and like. Girls,” she added tenta¬ 
tively. 

Mr. Courtenay took another slanting view of the fluffy 
golden head, and remained silent. 

Of a sudden Penelope stopped: a belated twinge of 
conscience pricking at her heart, she exclaimed “Oh!” 
with a tiny gasp. 

“What is it?” demanded Mr. Courtenay, jumping at 
the suddenness of it. 

“Veronica! Whatever will she think of us! We’ve 
forgotten her entirely!” 

“She’s never been from my thoughts for an instant 
minute,” assured Patrick brazenly. “ ’Twould be a 
crime to disturb her. She’s having the time of her life 
with Ould Punch and the rats. I wonder if they’ve 
caught anny?” 

Penelope disengaged her hand. “What do you think 
of Veronica?” she asked slowly. “She’s very beautiful 
I think.” 

“She is the loveliest girl I ever beheld,” declared Mr. 
Courtenay enthusiastically. 

“Oh,” interjected Miss Hammerden with some cool¬ 
ness. 

“Except one,” he added. 

“Ah!” said the golden-haired one with extreme indif¬ 
ference. “And who may she be?” 


RESEMBLES FORTUNE REVEALED 83 


“You,” said Mr. Courtenay, standing squarely in the 
path and facing her. 

Miss Penelope gazed at him in blank astonishment. 
At that moment the most terrible shriek ever emitted 
from the lungs of a healthy American girl rent the quiver¬ 
ing silence with ear-splitting force. 

“My God!” screamed Miss Penelope with whitening 
face. “Veronica! Save her!” 

An adjuration entirely unnecessary, for Mr. Courtenay, 
at a pace that would have done credit to a greyhound, 
was tearing along the tow-path like a man possessed. 
He was followed, at about twenty yards’ distance, by Miss 
Penelope, who resembled nothing so*much as a pert T. B. 
D. following a super-Dreadnaught into action. 

They found the gentle Veronica huddled up against 
a tree, with all her garments clutched about her as tightly 
as a shroud; her face blanched to the lips, her great eyes 
staring with horror, and in front of her the clay-em¬ 
balmed figure of Old Punch. 

That canine reprobate was engaged in triumphantly 
tossing up, as near to her face as was possible, a mon¬ 
strous water-rat ; and was plainly inviting her to join him 
in a game of toss-ball with the slimy, gore-bedraggled 
corpse. 

Succour thus appearing before the agonized vision of 
the fair Veronica, she promptly subsided, and fainted 
away upon the top of Old Punch and his grisly play¬ 
thing. Pie, under the mistaken impression that at last 
the lady was entering into the idea of the game, crawled 
from under her, tossed his burden gaily into her lap; 
from whence—she appearing to be taking no interest 
in it—he dived on it, and slaughtered it afresh. At which 
point, to his supreme astonishment, he made sudden and 
violent acquaintance with the toe of Mr. Courtenay s 
shoe. 





84 


THE BIG HEART 


This outrage having been inflicted upon him by the 
Great One (coming from any other the retort courteous 
would have been instantaneous and all-sufficing), Old 
Punch disgustedly seated himself at a judicious distance, 
and proceeded to view the restoration of his quondam 
partner in sport. Funny lot of beings, though, these 
two-legged humans. No depending on ’em—particularly 
the ones with the squeaky voices and drapery on them. 
Damn funny. Nothing sporty, or doggy, about ’em. 

Miss Veronica Schornhurst’s revival being complete, 
after much titillation of the hands and many endearing 
and remorseful expressions from the little Penelope, the 
party wended its way slowly back to “Braylings.” Mr. 
Courtenay was the discoverer of his sagacious hound’s 
hidden treasure; which, swinging by the tail, he hurled far 
into the river. It reappeared, however, as a mural 
decoration to the hall-mat that evening, Old Punch mak¬ 
ing short work of a footman who officiously interfered 
with it. 

Mr. Courtenay, seated by the open French window of 
Mr. Hammerden’s room, conferring with the big man 
upon the result of his cogitations, was beginning yawn- 
ingly to attune his thoughts towards bed. Taken as a 
sample, it had been a fairly lively day, so lively that he 
was stiff, sore, and sleepy as a consequence. But he was 
satisfied; and happy—preposterously so. 

The house was very still; every one but it owner and 
himself seemed abed, and, conceivably, fallen asleep. Mr. 
Courtenay was about to suggest following their good 
example when the hum of a motor—a racing-car of high 
power—smote distantly upon his ear. There was no 
mistaking the pace it was travelling. 

“Road hogs!” he murmured, with a glance in the direc¬ 
tion of the sound. 



RESEMBLES FORTUNE REVEALED 85 


Mr. Hammerden nodded, listening. The humming 
crept nearer and nearer. “Coming here,” he snapped. 

“Any idea who it is?” asked Mr. Courtenay. 

“In a devil of a hurry, whoever they are,” answered 
the big man. 

The blinding glare of a great headlight, and a long 
black bonnet slid stealthily in front of the open window; 
then came to a purring standstill. 

From the driver’s well sprang a tall figure enveloped 
in racing kit and masked by staring goggles: he walked 
straight into the room. 

“Courtenay!” said the figure. “The man I want.” 

“By Gad!” exclaimed the astounded Patrick. “Blake¬ 
ley!” 

“Ah!” said the big man quietly. 

The Honourable Bill pushed up his goggles and drag¬ 
ging off his heavy gauntlets took the hand Mr. Courtenay 
offered. 

“Mr. John Hammerden,” introduced Patrick with an 
indication of the hand. 

Mr. Blakeley took not the slightest notice of the intro¬ 
duction. 

“Courtenay,” he said, speaking in a low, passionate 
voice, through compressed lips, “I want a plain answer 
to a plain question.” 

“Go ahead,” said Mr. Courtenay quietly; “you’ll get 
it from me.” 

“The morning you joined up with this man,” went 
on the Honourable Bill, “you told me your work had to 
do with a lady. Was that lady my sister, the Countess 
of Racedene?” 

Mr. Courtenay nodded slowly: “It was your sister,” 
he answered simply. 

“Thanks.” 


86 


THE BIG HEART 


The Honourable Bill strode across to where the big 
man was seated watching him closely, his bandaged foot 
upon a stool before him. 

“If you weren’t a crocked man,” he hissed, “big as you 
are I’d drag the truth out of you, or throttle you doing 
it. What the hell has my sister to do with you, that 
her name should be coupled with yours, and bandied about 
among a cosmopolitan gang of cut-throats, in a den like 
Spodani’s?” 




CHAPTER IX: In which the furtive Tuning-up of 
the hidden Orchestra Announces that the Entertain¬ 
ment is about to Commence. 

W HEN, with the most imbecile grin he could con¬ 
jure up at the moment, the Honourable Mr. 
Blakeley stepped into the smoke-laden back room 
at Spodani’s, he went into a sudden, tensely-alert and 
quivering silence. 

The Honourable Bill’s eyes, for all the monacle he 
sported, were particularly keen; and piercing the blue haze, 
he instantly located the man who had mentioned his 
sister’s name. He was a huge, swarthy-looking giant, 
whose face seemed in a condition of considerable dis¬ 
repair. Around his bull neck was tightly wrapped a new 
and thick surgical bandage. 

Directly facing him was a tall, thin, grey-haired man, 
whose refined, ascetic face suggested the clergy; his 
predominating feature a pair of steely-grey eyes, that 
held a curious menace. He was attired in a dark cleri¬ 
cal grey, which, with a plain collar and black tie, added 
considerably to his godly appearance. Of the others, in 
a lightning glance, he made out that one was a flashy 
foreigner—not unlike a youthful edition of Spodani in 
appearance—and the other a thick-set typical Yank, whose 
pugnacious appearance was further augmented by one 
particularly thick ear. 

Mr. Blakeley further noted that one hand of both the 
clerical-looking man and the smiling foreign gent were 
concealed below the table line. Instinct told him that 
from the moment of his appearance he had been covered, 

87 


88 


THE BIG HEART 


as indeed he had, by the dulled blue tubes of two sure¬ 
fire automatic Colts. 

The Honourable Bill’s cheerful ugly face expressed the 
most profound and vacuous astonishment. 

“I . . . really ... I beg your* pardon!” he gasped. 
“Dinin’ downstairs. Came up—wash my hands. Lost 
myself. Rotten crib for that—what?'’ He re-affixed his 
monocle in his eye, and surveyed the clerical-looking man 
pleasantly. “Awfully sorry—wrong doin’s—an’ all 
that.” 

The gentleman bowed; his face relaxed. “It is quite 
easily done here,” he returned courteously. He arose, 
moving around the table to the door. “Permit me,” he 
said, indicating the gloomy exterior of the landing with 
a gesture of invitation, “to put you right.” 

His politely-extended hand left Mr. Blakeley no option 
but to proceed forthwith. He had seen, however, all 
that was necessary; and by no means was he likely to 
forget any of those well-defined and decidedly character¬ 
istic faces. 

“That door on your left,” directed the clerical-faced 
man, pointing downwards. 

Mr. Blakeley moved to the staircase with rambling 
apology. 

“Of course!" said he. “Downstairs—of course! I 
am a bally ass—really. Awfully good of you, I’m sure.” 

He began to descend. 

“Good night,” said the other abruptly. 

“Good night, old thing,” murmured Mr. Blakeley in¬ 
anely. “Good night.” 

He received no acknowledgment, and paused at the 
bottom, listening; to hear the door above him close again, 
and blackness settle upon the landing. 

Who were they? What did Spodani know of them; 
and should he make any inquiry that might give even 




ENTERTAINMENT TO COMMENCE 89 


a glimmer of suspicion? After a moment’s considera¬ 
tion he decided upon silence—for the present at least. 
Hammerden! That was the man he must get hold of, 
and at once. Whatever the connection between that man 
and his sister Blakeley must find out. 

Hammerden! Courtenay might help him there. He 
would hunt him up as soon as he’d got shut of Myrtle. 
Curse Myrtle—and her hectic allurements! He’d trot 
her round to Murtell’s Dance Club and pass her on to 
a pal. There must be some stout heart who’d take her 
on, give her a good time, and he could give ’em a cheque 
for the out-of-pocket in the morning. “Ginger” Blair 
would do it if he was about—he’d take on anything in 
petticoats—if it was new. 

Find Courtenay; then Hammerden—that was the pro¬ 
gramme Hadn’t Courtenay said something about his 
business being connected with—with a lady? If that 
lady should be Felicia, some of them would see—by God, 
they’d seel 

Steadying himself, he went slowly back to the res¬ 
taurant—and the vivid green Myrtle. 

He joked Spodani upon his adventure into the hidden 
recesses of the establishment. That gentleman eyed him 
for a moment with a strange glint in his fiery eye. Upon 
learning the true happening of the intrusion his suspicion 
appeared to be dispelled; and, with a wealth of volubility 
and gesticulation, he poured forth an explanation of “da 
lettle partee to playa da card. Si.” 

A hurried examination of the telephone-book of that 
brasserie (chanting aloud the letter T while he searched 
under the initial H.) revealed what he was anxious to 
know—the private address at Sunbury of Mr. John Ham¬ 
merden, Financier. 

Within one hour and a half of that information, he 
was streaking silently out of London in a racing car, 




90 


THE BIG HEART 


the property of an absent friend. The ubiquitous Mr. 
“Ginger’’ Blair having been discovered at a loose end, 
Myrtle, and with her, notoriety, was thrust upon him— 
though not without mild protests from both parties. 

At Mr. Courtenay’s rooms he learned that the genial 
Patrick was out of town—staying, so the garrulous 
housekeeper politely informed him, at Sunbury; and for 
an indefinite period. Good! He would have the two 
men together! 

Stealing along the Brompton Road on low, the Honour¬ 
able Bill grimly reviewed the mystifying incidents of the 
evening; and wondered what the devil that precious gang 
in the evil-smelling back room was about now. Had he 
known, it might have mystified him still further; but 
saved him a considerable amount of trouble in the end. 

When the clerical-looking gentleman in grey had re¬ 
turned to the room, he sat for a moment or two with 
brows knitted in thought. 

“What’s got ya, Parson?” inquired the gentleman with 
the thick ear. 

“Does any one know that gentleman?” inquired the 
Parson slowly. 

“That dub!” growled the big, dark-skinned man. 
“Aw hell, him! Let’s get on. I wanna drink.” 

The clerical-looking man referred to as “the Parson” 
leaned across the table and transfixed the speaker with his 
steely-grey eyes. “You’ll cut that out while you’re on 
this side and working with me,” he said quietly, 
“or. . . .” 

“Or?” echoed the big fellow, thrusting his evil face 
forward with a leer of defiance. 

“Or clear out and work the job yourself,” answered 
the other firmly; “and that you’ll never do as long as 
you live. God gave you strength,” he continued bitingly, 
“and the disposition of a crook; but He forgot the brains 


ENTERTAINMENT TO COMMENCE 91 


to let you get away with it. You’ve made a darn’d fool 
of yourself once today; and got something to show for 
it. Well, once is enough with me—get me? I’m boss 
here. So now you know.” 

The half-breed stirred uneasily. There was no ques¬ 
tion about the indomitable mastery of the clerical gentle¬ 
man when he chose to display it. 

“Another thing, while I’m at it,” he resumed in a 
voice that struck as chill as the first East wind through 
summer flannels. “If you’ve got any idea that you’re 
a Tack man with a gun, I’d like to put you wise before 
you get hurt. You see Frankie here?” He jerked a 
thumb contemptuously towards the pleasant, bright¬ 
toothed Italian gentleman. “Well, in case you don’t 
know, Francisco Poltaro here has gunned more men in 
the open street in New York than ever you’ve seen in¬ 
terred with flowers by their relatives. You’re not the 
only sure shot that’s walking round, even if you did man¬ 
age to slip one into Lord Racedene.” 

“You don’t need to get peeved,” began Howarth sulk¬ 
ily. “I made a bad break. All right. But all this hot 
air—” 

“That’s where you are wrong,” smiled the Parson 
icily. “It is not hot air—that’s what I am anxious to 
impress on you—for your own sake. Otherwise, I ad¬ 
vise you to take that red lady and her papoose and get 
out of this country while you’re safe! This is a big 
game, and I’ll pull it off; but I’ll do it my own way; and 
the next move you make that blocks me is going to spell 
trouble for you, Bart Howarth. Is that understood?” 

“Sure,” growled Howarth. “Get on with it your own 
way.” 

“I intend to,” said the Parson calmly. He rose and 
pushed a little bell that was cunningly inserted in one of 
the bricks of the fireplace; then returned to his chair. 


92 


THE BIG HEART 


“That gun,” he observed, “was one of the strongest pulls 
we had. We’ve got to get hold of it again—somehow. 
We must have identification that can't be wriggled out 
of.” 

“What about that photo I see?” asked Howarth. 
“You couldn’t miss that—it was the dead-spit of him 
as he was.” 

The Parson nodded. “I’ll see to that,” he said. 

The gentleman with the thick ear volunteered an 
opinion. 

“Frankie and me’d better run the rule over that joint, 
Parson. Might be a tidy pick-up in the safe as well.” 

The Parson leant back in his chair and sighed. “My 
good Jerry McGraw,” he said wearily, “do oblige me by 
not trying to think! With a sandbag, knuckle-dusters, 
or any primitive form of rough-neck crime you’re as 
good—or bad—as the next; but do not think.” 

Jerry McGraw flushed to his thick ear under this 
pained castigation. 

“I’m hep,'’ he remarked tersely. “I ain’t any Presi¬ 
dent Wilson for the grey stuff.” 

Signor Spodani entered noiselessly, glancing inquir¬ 
ingly at the master-spirit. 

“Do you happen to know who that gentleman in full 
dress was that strolled in here?” asked the Parson. 

“Ah, him!” said the Signor, elevating his shoulders to 
his ears. “ E tella to me. It ees justa da acciden’. ’E 
ees of da areestocracee—ver’ big man. Bona!” 

“I’m dealing with that class of society just now,” ob¬ 
served the Parson. “Who is he?” 

“Rlakelee,” answered the Signor, with another shrug. 
“The Honour’ble Beel Blakelee.” 

“H’m,” mused the Parson frowningly; “sounds famil¬ 
iar to me.” 

He took from his pocket a small book which he studied 



ENTERTAINMENT TO COMMENCE 98 


for some moments; then suddenly, with an exclamation 
of surprise, jumped to his feet. 

“Where is he?” he demanded of Signor Spodani. 

The Signor shrugged his shoulders. “ ’E is dere wit’ 
a woman. I go to mak heem da bill. Si” 

The Parson nodded; he seemed to be upon the point 
of saying something, but restrained himself. 

“Right,” he said. “That’s all.” 

The Signor retired. Instantly the Parson was alive 
with burning eagerness. 

“Listen,” he snapped sharply. “That gentleman’s 
accidental visit was a frame-up!” 

“What d’ye mean ?” asked McGraw. 

“I mean that he’s a member of Lady Racedene’s fam¬ 
ily—her brother!” 

The Italian whistled softly through his teeth. 

“Madonna mia!” he ejaculated. “That ees no good.” 

“For him—no,” snarled the Parson. “Yon get on to 
him, Frankie; don’t leave him tonight. First chance you 
get—” he touched his side-pocket significantly. 
“ Sapetif” 

“Bona,” smiled the Italian wickedly. “Leave heem to 
me. If he has a car?” he asked quickly. 

“ ’Phone Domenico and get his out at the first stop 
he makes. If Blakeley’s with a dame he’ll pull in some¬ 
where. Stick to him; report in to me as soon as you 
can.” 

“What do I do ?” questioned Howarth, lurching to his 
feet. 

“Go to bed and stop there till I want you,” came the 
curt reply. “You can’t do any harm there.” 

Somewhere in the Fulham Road a big blue Rolls-Royce 
limousine, driven by a foreign-looking chauffeur in livery, 
slipped quietly past the big racer. The Honourable Bill, 
beyond a cursory glance, gave it no attention. He could 


94 


THE BIG HEART 


not, in any case, have seen the pair of dark, flashing eyes 
that watched him from the peep-hole. 

At the foot of Putney Hill—Blakeley was going via 
the Heath and Kingston Vale—he thought he noticed a 
car of similar make standing by the pavement; fancied he 
heard it start soon after he passed. At the top of the hill 
he swung on to the Heath, and for the first time became 
really awake to the fact that the big limousine was fol¬ 
lowing and closely overhauling him. 

A second later a shot whistled shrilly past his ear and 
embedded itself in a tree-trunk. A second glanced clat¬ 
tering off the bonnet; and a third buried itself harmlessly 
in the back of his seat. 

“Automatic!” ejaculated Mr. Blakeley. “What ho! 
Pm spotted; and Spodani’s out for blood! Here’s a 
blinkin’ circus!” 

Cursing himself that he had not pocketed his service 
Webley when he changed, he bent his head low, opened 
full out, and the big racer leapt screaming at the track 
on an eighty-mile gait. No limousine built could run 
second to that speed. 

After about ten minutes of this mode of progression 
through the Vale, he slowed down and listened intently: 
there was nothing to be seen or heard of the limousine: 
she was as if she had never been. 

“The murdering swine!” muttered the Honourable Bill, 
mopping his streaming forehead. “The dirty tykes!” 

He resumed his seat, and proceeded upon his journey. 

The sun was throwing its first peeping rays through 
the great elms at “Braylings” when the three men, 
strangely grey and drawn-looking in the breaking dawn, 
stirred at last from their long conference. 

Hour after hour it had gone on, each contributing his 
quota, but the big man appeared to have had the most 
to tell—and to tell more earnestly than any. To a 


ENTERTAINMENT TO COMMENCE 95 


watcher it would have seemed as though he were pleading 
before some judge for a cause so sacred to him that 
life and death might well hang upon the verdict. 

The Honourable Bill rose, moved to the window and 
stared out for a few moments in silence. At length 
he turned, and with a gesture thrust his great fist towards 
the big man. 

“Hammerden,” he said, “I owe you apology for a 
good many things I’ve thought; a good many conclusions 
IVe jumped to without—without knowing. You’re a 
good fellow, and I’m—I’m a damned ass! I ought to 
have known, with Paddy in the thing, there was nothing 
wrong—but, well, Felicia, poor girl, has had a hell of a 
rough time, and when I thought there was more in store 
for her, I—I saw red.” 

Hammerden, raising himself painfully to his feet, 
seized the hand with a grip that made even Bill Blakeley 
wince. “Say no more, Blakeley,’’ he said huskily. 
“Forget it. I’m glad you came here tonight.” 

“There’s one thing,” said the Honourable Bill grimly: 
“we know now where we stand in the damnable business. 
We’ve got to kill it—wipe these swine out. After that,” 
he continued, “my sister will have a good deal to thank 
you for.” 

“I want no thanks,” said the big man. “I’m out for 
nothing but her happiness and security. That’s all I 
ever meant towards her—though God knows I'd give her 
anything that is mine to give. Strange talk,” he added 
whimsically, “of a woman who doesn’t know I exist, and 
that I’ve never seen but once in my life. You two must 
think me pretty mad!” 

Blakeley shook his head. “I don’t think you mad,” 
he said quietly; “and, unless I’m much mistaken, neither 
will Felicia.” 

“She must never know !” said Mr. Hammerden sharply. 






96 


THE BIG HEART 


The Honourable Bill shrugged his shoulders. “That’s 
more than any of us can answer for,” he said. “Most 
women I know have an uncomfortable knack of findin’ 
out what’s hidden from them.” 

“That,” said Mr. Courtenay, “is a regrettable fact. 
They’re like dogs. The deeper ye bury the dead cat, the 
more they’ll skin their noses routing it out again.” 

“And now,” said Mr. Hammerden, “if you’re of a 
mind—bed. We’ll see what the morning brings forth 
later.” 

Mr. Blakeley picked up his gauntlets. “I’ll be a sur¬ 
prised man if it doesn’t bring something unpleasant from 
those vermin.” 

The Honourable Bill, glancing at a mat inside the wide 
hall entrance, became suddenly aware of a gleaming black 
eye that fixed him with an almost hypnotic rigidity. It 
shone from a gaunt, iron-jawed head that rested im¬ 
movable upon the carcass of a huge blood- and clay- 
bedaubed rat. 

“By jove!” he ejaculated. “Who the dooce is that 
stout feller?” 

“That,” answered Patrick, a very affectionate note in 
his voice, “that is the gentleman who put 'Paid’ to Mr. 
Bart Howarth’s account.” 

For a few seconds ‘that stout feller’ and the Honour¬ 
able Bill contemplated each other's particular style of 
ugliness with good-tempered and appreciative specula¬ 
tion. 

“A fighter,” thought the Honourable Bill delightedly. 
“A fighter from the ground up!” 

“Shouldn’t be surprised if he could do a bit,” gauged 
Old Punch critically. “Nice hard-bitten look about him. 
Useful jaw; and beautiful teeth.” 


CHAPTER X: In which The Honourable Bill Sees a 
Vision—and “Acts Accordin' A 

T HE sun was shining brilliantly through the open 
casement windows of the bedroom allotted to the 
Honourable Mr. Blakeley, when that gentleman— 
in response to repeated knockings upon his door—opened 
his eyes, rolled over, and yawningly invited entrance. 

In answer, a stout, middle-aged person of extremely 
decorous exterior appeared; bearing before him wel¬ 
come morning beverage, a selection of shaving-tackle, 
and upon his arm a dressing-gown, the property of Mr. 
Hammerden. He also bore geographical information 
concerning the bathroom, etc. 

From this gentleman, in the course of his dexterously 
setting out the shaving-tackle upon the dressing-table, 
the Honourable Bill gleaned the valuable information 
that he was Mr. Hammerden’s own man, by name Bates; 
that he was slightly troubled with rheumatism; that it 
looked like making a very 'ot day for the time of year; 
and also that Miss ’Ammerden and the other guests had 
breakfasted at nine o’clock as usual. 

“Oh,” said the Honourable Bill reflectively. “So there 
are other guests, are there?” 

“Mr. and Mrs. Jacob J. Schornhurst of New York, 
sir,” answered Mr. Bates. “And their daughter.” 

“The Jacob Schornhursts, I wonder?” asked Mr. 
Blakeley, leisurely partaking of the refreshing bever¬ 
age. 

“Very ’igh in American finance, I understand, sir,” 
informed Mr. Bates impressively. “Very 'igh indeed. 

97 


98 


THE BIG HEART 


The young lady is very ’andsome—extremely so. A 
brunetty lady. The exact opposite of our Miss Penelope 
—of Miss ’Ammerden—as of course you’ll know, sir,” 
he added confidentially. 

Mr. Blakeley nodded affirmatively. He didn’t know; 
hadn’t the faintest idea that there was such a young 
person as Miss Penelope Hammerden in existence. 

“Er—Miss—er—Schornhurst? Let me see, her 
name. . . ?” 

“Veronica, sir,” whispered Mr. Bates. “Miss Ver¬ 
onica. ‘Ronny’ her father calls her, just as Mr. ’Ammer¬ 
den calls our young lady ‘Penny.’ Miss Penny. Rather 
an amusing name, I fancy, for so wealthy a young lady,” 
said Mr. Bates, with a little oily chuckle. 

Mr. Blakeley thought it very amusing. He ruminated 
silently upon the names of these two Graces. “Ronny 
and Penny.” Sounded very pleasantly upon the ear. 
Mr. Blakeley decided upon rising forthwith and making 
closer acquaintance with the owners of these mellifluous 
appellations. He was about to put this idea into execu¬ 
tion, when his door, left slightly ajar, slowly opened; 
simultaneously, Mr. Bates, turning rather pale, backed 
slowly into a corner. 

From around the bottom of the bed appeared the huge 
bull-terrier he had conferred with earlier in the morning. 
Pie still carried the defunct rodent, which he deposited in 
the centre of the floor, and laid his head upon, in precisely 
his earlier attitude, and proceeded to contemplate Mr. 
Blakeley’s visage with the same earnestness as before; 
seeming as though he wished to verify his previous con¬ 
clusions in a better light. Apparently the second scrutiny 
proved satisfactory, for his tail began to slowly sweep 
along the carpet, and in the one piercing orb was a light 
of decided affability. 

“Well, old bean!” inquired the Honourable Bill, with 




BILL SEES A VISION 


99 


a responsive grin. “Brought the corpse round to see me? 
What’s his name?” he demanded of the shrinking Mr. 
Bates. 

“Punch, sir, I understand,” responded that individual, 
eyeing the door wistfully. “A very dangerous animal. 
I consider.” 

“Oh?” said Mr. Blakeley. 

“Extremely so. That rat will be the death of some¬ 
body—not to speak of ’igh fevers and such-like. I don’t 
know whether it’s the first he’s ever killed or not, sir; 
but he’s that attached to the ’orrible thing it’s as much as 
a man’s life’s worth to go nigh it.” 

The Honourable Bill grinned. 

“Somebody tried to purloin it?” he asked. 

“Mr. ’Ebditch, the butler, sir. Found it in a top-hat, 
a new top-hat of Mr. Schornhurst’s, sir, which he’d left 
upside-down on the ’all table. The brute had ’idden it in 
it. Mr. ’Ebditch, very rightly, was going to pitch it out 
before Mr. S. should know; an’ it seems the brute was 
watching him from an armchair. Shockin’! Flew at 
him and bit him on the calf of the leg. I thought you’d 
’ave been sure to hear it, sir.” 

The Honourable Bill roared. Visions of the gentle¬ 
manly ’Ebditch careering about the hall with a topper in 
one hand, a dead rat in the other, and the ungentlemanly 
Old Punch hanging on to his well-covered leg, rose be¬ 
fore his eyes, and he howled in ribald joy. 

“Oh, Lord!” he gasped helplessly, wiping the tears from 
his eyes. “You’ll be the death of me, Bates—you will, 
really!” 

Mr. Bates looked upon him with strained demeanour. 

“ Tghly amusin’, I’m sure, sir—for them as is not bit 
to death,” he observed, edging gingerly, and in the most 
circuitous route possible, towards the door. 

Mr. Blakeley roared again. 


ICO 


THE BIG HEART 


“You look out lie don’t have you, Bates,” he advised 
shakily. “Accordin’ to M. O’s, it’s most dangerous to 
those who carry a bit of fat. In fact, deadly.” 

This piece of scientific information having the effect 
of landing Mr. Bates outside the door with one spring 
of tremendous agility, the Honourable Bill arose briskly, 
and stooped, scrouging up the cropped ears in very matey 
fashion. He straightened up hurriedly, viewing his 
visitor, with wrinkled nose, decidedly askance. 

“My dear old thing!" he gasped. “My dear old Bat¬ 
tler! Really! That prey of yours is nearly ripe for the 
crematorium. I like a bit of game myself, but dammit! 
—it isn’t done, old bean; it simply isn’t done!” 

At the dressing-table Mr. Blakeley proceeded to lather, 
expostulating from time to time with his companion 
upon his predilection for things odoriferous. At length, 
being no longer able to bear with a scent that could have 
given Myrtle’s chypre fifty yards in a hundred and lost 
it, he stooped, picked it up nonchalantly by the tail, and 
hurled it through the window. Old Punch sat up, gave 
him one look, as though to say, “If that’s your dirty 
spirit, you’re no pal of mine ” leapt through the window 
after his precious keepsake, landed in a large lilac-bush, 
and from thence with a thud to the ground. 

The Honourable Bill, gazing forth with stricken con¬ 
science a moment or two later, discovered him busily en¬ 
gaged in excavating a huge hole in the centre of a beau¬ 
tifully-kept rose-bed. Beside him lay the deceased; await¬ 
ing interment. A bearded gardener, spade in hand, was 
retreating rapidly up a path, convulsed with rage. 

Mr. Blakeley continued his toilet. He shaved; he 
bathed; then, returning to the window dressing-table, pro¬ 
ceeded with the adornment of his being. He was in the 
throes of semi-strangulation following an attempt on 


BILL SEES A VISION 


101 


the part of his tie to revolt, when the notes of a voice— 
a voice as soft and low as the note of a nightingale at 
dewy eve—held him in its thrall. 

Cautiously he ventured to the window and looked down. 
Crossing the velvet of an old lawn he beheld her—moving 
with the stately grace of a swan across the waters— 
Veronica! Had that gentle lady but lifted her raven 
head, she would have beheld, gazing at her in his shirt¬ 
sleeves, his tie ends floating in the gentle summer zephyrs, 
a young man: not an ordinary young man, but the ugliest 
her beautiful eyes had ever rested upon. 

In addition to his pristine native ugliness, she would 
have seen that his mouth was wide open, and that his 
eyes were bulged as those of the owl by day. 

It was not, however, written in her Book of Fate that 
she should so look up; therefore she did not. It is per¬ 
haps as well: the sight might have been too much for her. 

She moved, her clinging summer gown revealing the 
beauty of her tall, rounded form, to where a sun-dial 
stood in the centre of the sward, and leant upon it, her 
hands beneath the oval of her chin, in dreamy reverie. 

The Honourable Bill—his eyes never straying from 
this perfect picture—withdrew slightly and resumed the 
altercation with his tie; but this time he accomplished the 
job. Certainly, it was knotted most carefully inside 
out, but there . . . after all . . . 

And this— this was Veronica! Ronny! 

He knew it to be Ronny and not Penny, because of 
Bates’ blitheringly inadequate description. Brunetty! 
This adorable vision! This dark-haired, Madonna-like 
. . . brunetty! No tip for that fat fool! 

The remainder of Mr. Blakeley’s toilet was completed 
expeditiously: in two minutes he had slipped from the 
hall door and was crossing the green lawn towards her. 




102 


THE BIG HEART 


He approached her softly: with a start Veronica woke 
from her reverie, and with a faintly startled “Oh!” of 
maidenly agitation, stood and looked upon him. 

“How adorably beautiful!” thought the Honourable 
Bill, with a deep breath. “I—I was looking for my 
friend, Mr. Courtenay,” he began tentatively, gazing into 
her limpid eyes as though the ubiquitous Patrick might 
be discovered lurking there. 

“Perhaps I might introduce myself,” he hurried on. 
“My name is Blakeley—er—Bill Blakeley. I—I only 
arrived last night—very late.” 

Miss Schornhurst extended a friendly hand which he 
fondly clutched at. It seemed a very slim and taper 
hand in his great paw. 

“I knew who you were,” she said pleasantly. “Mr. 
Courtenay has spoken of you.” She liked him. He was 
very English, she thought; very soldierly; and very well- 
groomed. She certainly approved him; and he had very 
kind eyes. 

The Honourable Bill showed his teeth affably. 

“One description of me,” he grinned, “and you can’t 
make any bloomer. Fellers used to call me ‘Darwin’ in 
France.” 

“Oh, but that’s nonsense,” said Veronica hurriedly— 
then stopped in considerable confusion. 

“Tosh, isn’t it?” commented Mr. Blakeley equably. 
“I’m lovely, really. It’s their point of view that’s out 
of gear.” 

Veronica’s eyes wandered slowly about the garden, 
then rested upon an object at some distance. 

“I see,” said Miss Schornhurst. 

He followed the direction of her gaze: by some extraor¬ 
dinary instinct, at that moment she turned, caught his 
eye and smiled. The Honourable Bill grinned hugely. 

Seated in a small arbour, in the company of a very 


BILL SEES A VISION 


103 


tiny and outrageously lovely golden-haired little person, 
was Mr. Courtenay. He was holding forth impassion- 
edly upon some subject that seemed to be of considerable 
interest to both of them; for they appeared totally ob¬ 
livious of the presence of any one else in this delightful 
old garden. 

“Penny!” thought Mr. Blakeley. “Penny” and Mr. 
Patrick Courtenay, D.S.O. and M.C. He was at his 
miscreant work early. 

“Ah,” he said illuminatively. 

“They—they seem very interested,” remarked Miss 
Schornhurst shyly. 

“They do,” agreed Mr. Blakeley. “It would be a 
crime to—to disturb ’em. Perhaps you’d show me the 
garden ?” 

“But you’ve not breakfasted yet!” protested the lovely 
Veronica. 

“Has he?” demanded her companion, indicating the 
absorbed couple in the arbour. 

“I think not,” said she. 

Mr. Blakeley took her arm gently below the elbow and 
turned her about. “Then there’s plenty of time; he’s in 
no hurry.” 

It was half-an-hour later when Mr. ’Ebditch eventually 
discovered them in an arbour as like the one occupied 
by Paddy Courtenay and the little golden-haired 'Penny’ 
as if they’d been twins. He also had acquired the im¬ 
pressive earnestness of his Irish friend; and Miss Ver¬ 
onica appeared to be hanging upon his words with con¬ 
siderable attention. 

“Mr. ’Ammerden is awaiting you, sir, in the breakfast- 
room. He wishes me to state that he has something of 
importance to communicate.” 

“Right ho,” replied Mr. Blakeley. 

“And Mrs. Schornhurst,” continued the human mega- 



104 


THE BIG HEART 


phone, “has been inquiring of your whereabouts, miss, 
for some considerable time.” 

“Coming!” ejaculated Miss Schornhurst, rising agi¬ 
tatedly. 

Mr. Hammerden was already at breakfast with Patrick 
when the Honourable Bill, having safely negotiated an in¬ 
troduction to Mrs. Jacob J. and leaving that lady con¬ 
siderably impressed, put in his appearance. 

“Good morning,” he exclaimed genially, tossing an 
open letter across to his guest as he settled himself. “I 
hope you’ve slept well and are ready for action. The fun 
has started.” 

“Topping!" returned Mr. Blakeley, settling himself 
comfortably before an enormous dish of Wiltshire ham 
and eggs; “and this trifling repast looks just about my 
barrow.” He picked up the letter and scanned it. 

“Phew!” he ejaculated. “They mean business.” 

“Read it out,” requested Mr. Courtenay, “till I give 
my gigantic intellect another refresher.” 

Mr. Blakeley, with a glance round and in a subdued 
tone read as follows: 

“Poste Restante, 

Strand Post Office, 

W. C. 

“If Mr. Arthur Haybridge (alias John Hammerden), late 
of Tombstone, Arizona, and Dallas, Texas, is wise, he will ar¬ 
range an immediate personal interview with the undersigned 
to discuss, amicably if possible, certain matters concerning the 
sudden demise of the late Lord Racedene (better known in 
U. S. A. as Eric Royal). Mr. Haybridge, after the verdict of 
the jury upon that murder, will doubtless realize that delay, or 
non-compliance with the request, will be dangerous—for him. 

“He will not find the undersigned to be so primitive in his 
methods as his late caller upon the same business. He is 
urged for the sake not only of himself but of others closely 
related to the dead man who may demand immediate action. 

“Mr. Haybridge (or Hammerden, as he pleases) will be 


BILL SEES A VISION 


105 


well-advised to realize at once that evidence which he has no 
possible chance of confuting, is already in the writer’s hands. 

“The undersigned may also briefly state that he is in ad¬ 
dition acting on behalf of the late Eric Royal’s wife and 
family—whom doubtless Mr. Haybridge will remember as Miss 
Lona Howarth; erroneously believed to be dead. 

“Awaiting Mr. Haybridge’s instructions at the above ad¬ 
dress, 

“Yours very sincerely, 

“David J. Hartnell.” 

The Honourable Bill Blakeley’s face showed partic¬ 
ularly grim as he carefully folded the letter and restored 
it to Mr. Hammerden. 

“Well?” said the big man. 

“You were right, Hammerden,” said the Honourable 
Bill slowly. “They mean trouble all round. My sister! 
By God, I wonder if it’s possible that the woman’s alive!” 

“It’s possible answered Hammerden; “but I don’t 
honestly think it’s probable. I believe it’s all part of a 
huge bluff—a clever one, but a bluff, for all that.” 

“I hope to the Lord you’re right,” said the Honourable 
Bill soberly, “for everybody’s sake.” 

“There’s one thing I’ve been thinking,” put in Paddy 
Courtenay thoughtfully. “That elegant picture of you 
in your mining-kit has got to disappear—and quick, too. 
Howarth spotted it at once; he won’t be the only one.” 

Mr. Hammerden nodded: “I’ve thought of that,” he 
said. “I’m going on the ’phone to Pearson at ten- 
thirty. I’ll have it sent down here.” 

“Don’t,” said Mr. Blakeley shortly. “I’m going up 
to town—I’ll call and get it. You can’t tell who is 
watching that office of yours.” 

Hammerden sat for a moment tapping his fingers 
against the arm of his chair, his grey eyes narrowed in 
thought; then pulled out a pocket-book and scanned it 
closely. The others watched him in silence. 


106 


THE BIG HEART 


“If it’s the same lot that you saw at this dago place,” 
he began slowly, “then they know you—found it out 
quickly, too, by the way they got after you on Putney 
Heath. Courtenay here they’ve got taped for a cer¬ 
tainty. There’s nothing more certain but that they’ll get 
after him before so very long. This David J. Hartnell,” 
continued Mr. Hammerden, “would appear to be the 
brains of the outfit; and I’m not going to begin by under¬ 
rating his intelligence. Whoever he is . . .” 

“I’ll take a slight shade of odds,” interpolated the 
Honourable Bill, “that you’ll find he’s a very quiet, 
polite, clean-shaven gent, who looks like an out-of-work 
clergyman. Are you going to see him?” 

“I am,” answered Mr. Hammerden; “and at once— 
here. I believe implicitly in seeing whom I’m dealing 
with. On the other hand, I believe in using agents my¬ 
self who are not known.” 

Both his listeners agreed instantly. 

“Therefore I propose to use for his job a few men 
whose names I have here. Men that I think can be 
trusted. They need not know too much—and they are 
not known themselves. The first on my list—and on my 
pay-sheet from today, by the way—is Major Galbraith.” 

“Old Gal!” exclaimed the Honourable Bill. “The very 
man! By Gad!” 

“ ’Tis a fine idea,” seconded Mr. Courtenay enthusi¬ 
astically. 

“I’ll supplement him with”—here the big man referred 
again to his pocket-book—“Captain Robert Rattray, 
Lieutenant James Anstruther Carrington, Captain Perci- 
val Bowes Chevington, and Lieutenant Barnaby Fer- 
riby.” 

“The boys!” shouted Mr. Blakeley ecstatically. “Holy 
gods!—the b-boys! You remember ? ‘X. Y. Z.’s’ chick- 




BILL SEES A VISION 


107 


“Of course I remember,” said Patrick. “ Tis only 
three days ago we met, though it seems more like three 
years.” 

“I leave them to Courtenay and yourself,” went on 
the big man. “Find them, tell them what you think fit, 
and—pay what you like. They must not be known in 
the affair at all. As things open out, give each man 
the job he’s best suited for, and let him get on with it. 
The Major will be at my office this morning. I’ll give 
him his instructions on the ’phone.” 

Mr. Blakeley rose: “I'll make a move back for 
Town,” he announced, “and see to things. I’ll come 
down and report—as—as it’s necessary.” 

“I’ll come up to Town tonight for an hour or two— 
meet you at eight o’clock,” said Courtenay. 

“Where?” 

“Haymarket Buffet, for a change. We’re not likely 
to be spotted there by those we don’t want.” 

“Good.” 

The telephone-bell rang violently from Mr. Hammer- 
den’s room; slowly he made his way to it. In three 
minutes he was back: a grim smile about his mouth be¬ 
tokening further happenings. 

“They’re quick at work,” he snapped. “Pearson 
tells me Lombard Street was broken into last night— 
my safe stripped of private papers, and the picture 
gone.” 

The three looked at each other in silent consternation. 

“I’m off,” said the Honourable Bill. “It’s time we 
were on the job.” 

As the big racer glided slowly towards the gates of 
“Braylings,” Mr. Blakeley came upon Miss Schornhurst 
alone. She was seated upon the grass, reading; but rose 
as he stopped and held out his hand. 

“I’m off,” he announced abruptly. 


108 


THE BIG HEART 


She came slowly towards him; a shade, the tiniest, of 
disappointment crossing her face. 

“We haven’t seen a very great deal of you, Mr. Blake¬ 
ley,” she murmured. 

“Not this time,” answered the Honourable Bill, with 
very marked emphasis. 

Miss Schornhurst coloured slightly. “Then one might 
expect to see you again—soon ?” she asked diffidently. A 
rose she carried in her hand began a process of disin¬ 
tegration under her taper fingers. 

“One might/' answered the Honourable Bill, “if one 
cared to wish so, and mentioned it.” 

The great brown eyes of the American girl fixed sud¬ 
denly upon his, then drooped away. 

“I shall be very glad to see you, of course,” she said 
slowly; “if you come.” 

The Honourable Bill Blakeley looked at her an im¬ 
measurable instant; the next second he was standing be¬ 
side her on the drive. 

“Don’t do that,” he said gently, taking the rose from 
her hand and putting it into his pocket. “Do you know 
what I’m coming back for?” he said jerkily. 

Her eyes searched his face whimsically for a moment. 

“How should I?” she questioned innocently. 

“You/' said the astounding Mr. Blakeley, “You’re 
the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I love you! 
I don’t care who knows it!” 

In the next moment he was gone. For a long time 
she stood staring before her, with softly-parted lips and 
a look of sweet wonder in her eyes. Listened also; as 
though the deep hum of the big racer’s exhaust carried 
some message back to her. When it had died away, she 
turned and went slowly indoors. 


CHAPTER XI: “Just before the Battle, Mother 


I N a luxurious divan chair in the Lounge of a certain 
well-known house of refreshment in the Strand fa¬ 
mous for the solid excellence of its cuisine, Mr. Derrick 
H. Levigne—better known to the cognoscenti of the Un¬ 
derworld of Europe and the U. S. A. as “the Parson”— 
sat and meditated profoundly. 

A passer-by, glancing at his clean-shaven, keen-eyed 
face, his scrupulously neat and quiet grey clothes and the 
almost clerical touch of the black tie and shoes, would 
have appraised him as a successful business man of the 
intellectual type. Mr. Levigne was a successful man in 
his own business, without doubt—quite at the top of his 
particular tree—but scarcely in the sense that would have 
been intended by the appraiser. 

“The Parson” liked the haunts of business men; the 
more lurid high-lights of others in his profession held no 
charms for him whatever. He did not drink; and women, 
except as a medium for the exhibition of jewellery of 
value (which they might lose later), had no place in his 
category of the useful things of this life. Too often 
had he seen a combination of these two luxuries lower 
the flag of the most promising intellects of the predatory 
field. Not for Mr. Levigne—thank you. 

He liked business men; found in them solid virtues for 
his artistic activities possessed by no other class. Jewel¬ 
lery, an occasional Bank safe—to keep in touch with the 
latest inventions for security, and the methods of ren¬ 
dering them futile—and such-like were excellent as a 

change; a distraction; but for solid, durable work, some- 

109 




110 


THE BIG HEART 


thing a man might take pride and pleasure in, business 
men—first, last and all the time. Serve him up a sound, 
hard-headed, ruthless Captain of Industry to get his teeth 
into, and Mr. Levigne was happy. 

A smile of pleasant reminiscence played across his 
severe features as he thought of Signor Caestano, of 
Caestano, Lombardi & Co., of Milan, Rome and Paris. 
Seventy-five thousand good U. S. A. dollars! It was 
pie! M. Foutance of the Marseilles and Orient Shipping 
Co.: thirty-five thousand—should have been double but 
that the little gentleman developed cold feet at a critical 
moment. Extracting coppers from a blind man's tin! 
Herr Gebhart of Hamburg, Bremen, and Berlin. A hard 
nut that bird—Jewish extraction. A hurried departure 
from the Vaterland, with warrants flying about! Still, 
twenty-seven thousand marks (with the mark at par)—it 
might have been worse! 

And now, he ruminated, Mr. John Hammerden. A 
big job! No “con’’ game this, but a man playing for his 
life, with Mr. Levigne holding the trumps! John Ham- 
merden’s life against £250,000—and he a millionaire sev¬ 
eral times over! It thought out good. 

This Racedene business—with the woman and the kid. 
Well, Lady Racedene was some big person, and had a 
youngster of her own. To say nothing of her own good 
name, she was a mother; she would fight for her brat. 
She would come over for a nice useful figure—when Mr. 
Levigne had explained the position. But the first thing 
was Hammerden; and a reply to the demand for an in¬ 
terview. 

Mr. Levigne lit another cigar, and resumed his leisurely 
perusal of the Shipping Gazette —first glancing at his 
watch with just the faintest sign of impatience. He was 
awaiting the advent of Mr. Jeremiah McGraw, whose 
principal item of business at present was to call in at the 


“JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE” 


111 


Strand Post Office and receive any mail that might be 
forthcoming for one David J. Hartnell. 

Mr. McGraw was similarly a product of the City of 
Canned Goods; though he had invaded this country by 
the circuitous route of Sing Sing and the stoke-hole of 
a Baltimore liner. 

One would not have suspected that in the huge, broken- 
up mounds of flesh and bone that Mr. McGraw alluded 
to as his “mitts” was a dexterity envied by most of the 
slim-fingered barons of the safe-blowing industry. In 
youth he had been apprenticed by a worthy and anxious 
widow mother to a locksmith; after a brief career in the 
boxing ring had been brought to a conclusion, Jeremiah 
had returned to the locksmithing business, though in a 
rather more illicit direction than his earlier efforts. He 
did not hang out his shingle or give undue publicity to 
his place of business; but he could make a safe-door do 
everything he wished but talk. He went right to the top 
with a bound. 

But, as the Parson had rightly informed him that 
night at Spodani’s, he was no thinker. His mental 
processes were technical; concentrating upon the job ac¬ 
tually before him, and stopping at that. The careful pre¬ 
liminary reasoning, the amalgamation and consolidation 
into one sound “plant” of a hundred gleanings of informa¬ 
tion from the most unexpected quarters, the careful 
planning and timing, the staff work of a big nocturnal 
enterprise, these were not for him. But once at the 
work, no cleverer man ever used “the juice” on a steel 
box; and no more dangerous man to disturb while he was 
using it. Once accomplished, his ingrained geniality re¬ 
turned to him; the viciousness disappeared; part of his 
working outfit, to be laid aside with his “kit” when the 
labours of the night were safely over. 

Thus the Parson and Mr. McGraw were the perfect 





112 


THE BIG HEART 


pair—the Jack Spratt and his wife of their lucrative, if 
hazardous, profession. 

Mr. Levigne glanced up as a new-comer stumbled 
against his foot, and, with profound apologies, passed 
along to get a light for his ornately-banded cigar—Mr. 
McGraw. Lying upon the newspaper in Mr. Levigne’s 
lap, after he had passed, was a letter addressed to one 
David J. Hartnell—and stamped with the post-mark of 
Sunbury-on-Thames. 

A few minutes later, Mr. McGraw dropped lazily into 
the chair contiguous to Mr. Levigne’s, and awaited that 
gentleman’s pleasure. 

“Right,” remarked Mr. Levigne, putting the letter care¬ 
fully away. “Eleven a. m. tomorrow.” 

“Good,” returned Jerry. “Say,” he continued in the 
same restrained tone. “I sure had a helluva job gettin’ 
that mail.” 

“Oh?” said Mr. Levigne. 

“Yep. Some blonde Jane what I chats gi’s me the up- 
an-down-an-a 41 -over, like she had a bad smell under her 
nose. ‘You gotta card?’ sez she languid. ‘Nope/ says 
I. ‘I changed my clo’es an’ sure forgotta bring one.’ 
‘Nor no letters, nor iden’fication?’ says she. ‘Nix,’ says 
I. Den she blows an’ han’s th’ talk to a bald-head guy 
with blinks. He comes sailin’ along the same he had 
duck feet. I get in the first dig. ‘That letter’s sure 
mine,’ squeals me. ‘I wasen wise t’th’ ’dentification.’ 
‘I dunno about this,’ sez he, holdin’ th’ letter, and the 
blonde Jane eyeing me down like I wuz some cheap 
skate. ‘Where’s it fr’m?’ I hands to him pat—‘Sun- 
berry,’ says I. ‘I s’pose it’s all right,’ says he, and does 
the come over.” 

“I don’t expect we’ll need to trouble them again,” com¬ 
mented Mr. Levigne. 



“JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE” 


113 


“I don’ wan’ no more of ’em in miner answered Mr. 
McGraw bluntly. 

“Anything else ?” inquired The Parson in the same still 
voice. 

“I see Frankie Poltaro this morninh He said tell you 
Spodani’s friend’s got that place at—what’s it?” 

“Tilbury?” assisted his auditor. 

“Sure. I can’t thinka them names. He’s got it fixed, 
an’ paid over the dough. Frankie got the key, an’ we 
can blow in when we’re ready.” 

“Good,” nodded Mr. Levigne. 

“Frankie’s fair peeved over missin’ that dude guy 
t’other night. Regler sore in the temper. Him an’ 
Howarth near come to it las' night over some fluff bird. 
He’s hittin’ the bug juice again.” 

Mr. Levigne gritted his teeth. 

“Damn the half-breed fool!” he hissed; “and the drink 
and women. There’ll be trouble with Howarth yet.” 

McGraw grinned pleasantly. 

“His’ll buzz to him out of a blue steel barrel—quick. 
He’s bin an’ bought a dorg—one o’ them man-eatin’ Great 
Dane terrors wit’ a wall eye. Big as a mule and vicious 
as a Greek what’s wife’s bolted wit’ a cop. Got it chained 
up gettin’ it savage! Gettin it!” Mr. McGraw 
pulled a disgusted face and tapped his pocket. “Firs’ 
time that wall-eye looks sideways at me—I drill him— 
quick.” 

“May be useful at this Tilbury house,” commented 
Mr. Levigne. “How are the woman and the youngster?” 

“They’re O. K. Frankie’s running them down to—” 
Mr. McGraw shook his head hopelessly. “I can’t fix 
them places no ways.” 

.'“Wiltshire ?” 

“Riot of a name I reckon,” commented Jerry, “but 


114 


THE BIG HEART 


that’s the spot. He’s runnin’ ’em down in Domenico’s 
car and fixin’ ’em up at a farm. She’s all togged up 
now, and cert’nly looks the goods. She'll git away wit’ 
it, I figure.” 

“About the other man?” questioned Mr. Levigne. 

“Frankie says the other guinea—Spodani—has got 
hold of a right nifty bunch. Most dagoes, all wanted, 
and quick on the knife.” 

Mr. McGraw expectorated at a cuspidor with deadly 
precision. 

“I don’t hold wit’ them guineas,” he remarked with 
obvious distaste. “They’d sell th’ pants offa their back 
for a quart o’ red wine; and then who-hoop for Hell’s 
delight.” 

Mr. Levigne yawned slightly. 

“I’ve had them to handle before,” he said slowly, 
“and, believe me, my dear Jerry, I know how to deal 
with them.” 

“So do I,” retorted Mr. McGraw tersely. “Wit’ a 
nice short little bar o’ Bessemer. Good job we ain’t got 
no wimmen in this picnic—barring Howarth’s lot. Some¬ 
body ’ud be gettin’ theirs fur keeps.” 

“We haven’t,” responded Mr. Levigne; “and if we 
should be obliged to, later on, I’ll leave you in charge of 
them.” 

“Tank ya f’r nuttin’,” said Mr. McGraw shortly. 

“Shall I see you tonight?” inquired the Parson, as an 
indication that the interview was concluded. 

“Nope,” said Mr. McGraw. “Not unless it’s business. 
I gotta fresh Cissy what’s floppin’ the food in a swell 
hash foundry. I’m gonna blow her to a vordeville show 
this p. m. T’morra?” 

The Parson thought a moment. 

“Usual spot, with a car. Hire me one if Frankie’s us¬ 
ing Domenico’s. Ten sharp,” he answered. 


“JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE” 


115 


“Right,” said Mr. McGraw, and forthwith took his 
departure. 

Some ten minutes later, Mr. Levigne leisurely rose, 
strolled to the entrance, hailed a taxi, and was driven 
to an exclusive boarding-house in a fashionable suburb; 
where he was understood to be a visiting American phil¬ 
anthropist, deeply interested in English missionary en¬ 
terprises. 

At the same moment, at the Honourable Mr. Blakeley’s 
rooms in Pont Street, a select little circle of gentlemen 
were engaged in going over the Staff work of a certain 
enterprise: said Staff work the result of an all-night con¬ 
ference between Chief of Staff Courtenay and the gentle¬ 
man in whose rooms they were congregated. 

Paddy Courtenay, standing with his back to the mantel, 
waved a hand in conclusion. 

“So there ye are,” he said, “and now you know all 
about it. At least,” he added, “all that, with due respect, 
ye can know at the present moment.” 

“What d’ye think of it?” inquired the Honourable Bill, 
addressing the convention generally. 

“My dear old chap,” responded Mr. Jimmy Carrington, 
V.C., “it’s a topping show! A god-send!” 

“This gunman blighter’s a bit hot, ain’t he?” said Mr. 
Bowes-Chevington eagerly. “I do hope he’s my job. 
Really, Courtenay, I think you ought to consider me 
slightly. Pm corkin’ with a Webley .44.” 

“That be blowed!” interjected Mr. Carrington. “He’s 
my meat. Just my barrow!” 

“Will you shut up,” begged the grizzled Major Gal¬ 
braith, in some exasperation, “and let me think! I take 
it,” he continued, looking at Patrick and from him to 
Blakeley, “that you’re not averse to—to a suggestion?” 

“Fire away, Major,” answered Mr. Courtenay readily. 

“Clamper!” yelled Mr. Blakeley. 


116 


THE BIG HEART 


A closely-cropped head, adorned by two deep-set, 
twinkling eyes, a broken nose, and enormous bat-like ears, 
appeared suddenly around the door. 

“Yessir,” acknowledged Clamper smartly. 

“Touching beer,” inquired Mr. Blakeley. “Have we 
any left?” 

“Yessir,” answered Mr. Clamper. “Got in three dozen 
last night, sir, when I knew these gents was cornin’. 
Two dozen as usual, sir, and one extry.” 

“Stout man,” said Mr. Blakeley. “Produce it—and 
glasses; wiped; with towel; clean.” 

“Yessir,” said Mr. Clamper, and disappeared as sud¬ 
denly as he came. 

“Best man in England,” whispered Mr. Blakeley con¬ 
fidentially, “but will wipe the bally glasses on his hand¬ 
kerchief.” 

Mr. Clamper, having set forth the liquid refreshment 
and deposited the glasses upon the table, the door closed 
finally upon his ministrations. The Honourable Bill then 
produced from a box ottoman a clean glass-towel and pro¬ 
ceeded to put a final, but necessary, touch upon the goblets. 
Each gentleman having been provided with an amplitude 
of good amber beer, the Honourable Bill turned again to 
the still ruminating Major. 

“Now, Gal,” he said, “let’s hear from you.” 

“The point that strikes me,” began the Major slowly, 
“is Wiltshire. Courtenay’s got the rest of his ground 
pretty well covered; but the line of communication from 
Wiltshire is weak. If there is the slightest reason to 
apprehend any molestation of Lady Racedene by these 
precious scoundrels—you’re the best judge of that, Cour¬ 
tenay,—obviously, she being a woman and to an extent 
helpless, that's the point we want strength and mobility 
of forces. Above all—communications. That strikes 
you?” 


“JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE” 


117 


Paddy nodded. 

“At once,” he said thoughtfully; “but you’re not for¬ 
getting old Desmond?” 

“Not for a moment,” replied the Major quickly; “but 
he’s a tied man. By the very nature of his job he’s a 
fixture. The greater the menace, the bigger the fixture. 
Things might be happening all round him—and he’s help¬ 
less. Except by letter, he’s cut off.” 

“Telegraph?” suggested Mr. Carrington mildly. 

“Suppose something happens at night, too late to wire ? 
It won’t do,” urged the Major, shaking his head; “with 
a gang like this, it emphatically will not do.” 

There was a moment’s thoughtful silence; broken by 
the Honourable Bill. 

“You’ve got a motor-bike, haven’t you, Rats?” he 
asked. 

Rattray nodded eagerly. 

“A hummer,” he answered. “Let me go. I can take 
my camera and muck about, photographing the hinds, 
etc.” 

Courtenay looked up. 

“Right ho,” he said. “Get in touch with Desmond; 
then keep as far away from him openly as possible. Any 
beauty spots around Claverings?” he inquired of the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill. 

“Plenty. Historic old spot. Rats can mess about 
there, photographing, for a month. ‘Racedene Arms’ 
not a bad show; clean, good grub; and I can recommend 
the beer. Holden, the bloke’s name—an old sweat.” 

Rattray rose. “I’m off,” he announced blithely. “If 
you want to communicate with me—er—Brooks’ll be the 
monaker. Augustus. Gus Brooks. So long, all you 
chaps. I hope some of the fun comes my way.” 

At the door the Honourable Bill hailed him. 

“By the way, Rats,” he said, “make love to the virgin 




118 


THE BIG HEART 


at the post-office. She’s a sporty little sort, and there’s 
a trunk call from there. May be useful. She collects 
coins,” 

“So shall I,” assured Mr. Rattray. “I’ll take a bunch 
down with me—for exchanges.” He departed down the 
stairs, whistling blithely. 

“Now about this bally shootin’ blighter,” recommenced 
Mr. Carrington, V.C., with some anxiety. “Don’t you 
think—” 

“No, James,” cut in the Honourable Bill bluntly, “we 
don’t. Your job’s assigned—it’s deadly enough.” 

Mr. Carrington straightened up. A very alert look 
came into his mild blue eye, and he screwed his monocle 
in firmly. 

“Ha!” he ejaculated. “Cough it up.” 

“Do you know a girl, woman, feminine of anny kind, 
that would be seen out at dinner with ye for a temporary 
permanence? Because, if there is such an intrepid fe¬ 
male, you dine her at Spodani’s Cafe da Napoli every 
evening from now until orders are rescinded.” 

“The Lion’s Den,” added Mr. Blakeley grimly. 

Mr. Carrington pondered a moment; then snapped 
his fingers happily. 

“I know the woman!” he exclaimed. “One of the 
don’t-care-if-it-snows-ink breed. Smart lass— divorcee, 
I think—but that doesn’t matter. I’ve got no reputation 
to lose.” 

“Make sure she can stick a rough-house,” advised 
Mr. Blakeley, “because she may find herself in the thick 
of one, any minute—if I know my little Enrico.” 

“Oh, that won’t worry this lass,” assured Mr. Carring¬ 
ton calmly. “She’s one of the original foolish virgins. 
Don’t worry about her. I shan’t.” He disposed of the 
lady with a curt gesture, and addressed himself to the 
real business. “When there, what’s my line?” 



“JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE” 


119 


“ ’Twill be easy, ’ said Mr. Courtenay cheerfully. 
“Ye’ll act naturally as a blithering congenital ass; but 
—but, by hook or by crook, you’ve got to get into that 
back room again?* 

“Ha!” uttered Mr. Carrington again, breathing hard. 
“Bon!” 

“You’ve got to skin Spodani’s of every bit of infor¬ 
mation there is to get.” 

“And if they tumble on you, James, my lad, you’ll 
get six inches of steel, as sure as you breathe.” 

“You leave that to me,” said Mr. Carrington, winking 
astutely. “I’ll watch it.” 

“Under no circumstances attempt to report direct,” con¬ 
tinued Patrick. “You’ll be shadowed, for a certainty, 
from the first night you go—so will the ‘she.’ ” 

“And that,” said Mr. Carrington, rising briskly, 
“will be tonight. I’ll instruct the femme in the art of 
caution.” 

“If you want a better job than that, Jimmy,” put in 
Mr. Bowes-Chevington moodily, “you ought to be hanged 
like a dog.” 

“It’s my job to a T,” returned Mr. Carrington. “I’m 
off to ’phone up the bird.” He shook hands all round, 
in an exalted frame of mind. “Tootle-oo, you lot.” 

The Honourable Bill rushed after him to the door. 

“Jimmy,” he called, “give the consomme a miss after 
the first night. You know they might have a fancy to 
dope you that way.” 

“Right ho, Great Brain!” came back the answer. “I 
will gorge me on dry fodder—and drink bottled beer. 
Hooroo!” 

“I do hope you’ve got something tasty for me,” mur¬ 
mured Mr. Bowes j Chevington. “I’m simply spoiling for 
a fight. I don’t care who it’s with, or where, when, or 
any other bally old thing.” 


120 


THE BIG HEART 


“Can you ride a bike—a pusher?” inquired Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay of him. 

“Not so bad—better on a mo’-bike.” 

“Too fast,” said Mr. Courtenay, shaking his head. 
“Push-bike’s better. Arrange to have a bad puncture by 
ten-thirty sharp, tomorrow morning, outside Mr. Ham- 
merden's house at Sunbury—‘Braylings’ the name is. 
I’d be a bit of a howler as to dress—Norfolk, golf stock¬ 
ings, cycle-club cap. You’ll wait there till a man—a 
clean-shaven, clerical-looking man, probably dressed in 
grey, arrives. You’ll stop there messing about until he 
comes out, and you’ll never leave him until you’ve run 
him to his lair. He may not be dressed in grey; he may 
not be on foot; or he may come in a car—” 

“In which case,” interpolated the Honourable Bill, “it’s 
a hundred to one it’ll be a big blue limousine, driven by 
a foreign-looking chap.” 

“Right ho!” 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington enumerated the duties of his 
assignation with commendable precision. 

Courtenay nodded. “You’ve got it,” he confirmed. 

“Who is this blighter?” questioned Mr. Bowes-Chev¬ 
ington. “I can’t help thinkin’,” he continued, a dis¬ 
tinctly aggrieved tone noticeable in his rather high-pitched 
voice, “that you’ve found me a very soft job. Not what 
I was hopin’—not at all. Orders are orders, of course, 
and all that; but really, dear old things, you are wastin’ 
me. You really are.” 

Mr. Courtenay smiled. “My dear chap,” he said pleas¬ 
antly, “you talk in that asinine way because you don’t 
understand. The man you’re going after—the man 
you’re going to hang to like a leech to a bunged eye, is 
the King Pin—the boss of the gang—the master-mind of 
these darn’d ruffians.” 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington held up an expostulating hand. 


“JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE” 


121 


“My dear Courtenay,” he said contritely, “don’t say an¬ 
other word! That’s a different matter entirely. I’m a 
flamin’ ass. I know it. I look it, and I am. I apolo¬ 
gize. Bicycle—puncture—bit of a pebbly howler—ten- 
thirty—right ho!” 

“And if you take my tip, Percival,” broke in the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill, glaring at him, “you’ll take a corking good 
automatic with you.” 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington’s orbs lit up eagerly. 

“No!” he ejaculated delightedly. 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Blakeley, “and, what’s more, you’ll 
see it’s a dead sure-fire gun—if ever you want to gaze 
upon us again.” 

“My dear old chap, I saw a beauty in Panton Street, 
only day before yesterday. I’ll nip round and get it. 
See you after the deed’s done!” 

Saying which, Mr. Bowes-Chevington flung himself 
out in a state of furious excitement, and was heard whis¬ 
tling for a taxi like a man possessed. 

“That boy,” said the Major wearily, “ ’ll be the death 
of me. I suffered from him for two years, out there— 
and here he is again!” 

“I’m afraid,” said Patrick, shaking his head, “he seems 
a bit of an ass. I don’t know.” 

“You don't,” replied the Major abruptly. “Unless I’m 
much mistaken, Bowes-Chevington could buy and sell 
the lot of us. And now,” he continued, “what's my job? 
I like to think things out a bit.” 

“You, Major,” answered Patrick, “you and Ferriby 
here attach to Blakeley and myself. We’ll keep in Town 
for a bit. The gang are here somewhere, and they’ve 
got to be routed out. The other boys can start it— 
we’ll butt in when the trail gets hot.” 

“Right. I’m glad to be in Town, of course,—on ac¬ 
count of the missus and the kids; but I hope,” the Major 



122 


THE BIG HEART 


sounded somewhat rueful at this, “they don’t have all the 
real fun of it.'’ 

Mr. Courtenay smiled. 

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’ll get all the fun ye’re 
asking for before you’re much older.” He passed a hand 
gently over his still bruised countenance. “I’ve a damned 
good hiding to pay back, don’t forget.” 

The Major grinned, and nodded sympathetically. 


CHAPTER XII: First Blood 


E X-CAPTAIN BOB RATTRAY was sending the 
old “Triumph” 4-H.P. at a rattling bat along the 
road; viewing what little of the surrounding country he 
could catch a glimpse of with intense satisfaction. Good 
old show, England. 

He was extremely thirsty: it was an exceedingly warm 
day; and from Amesbury a big blue limousine car had 
given him more of her dust than was pleasant. Travel¬ 
ling at a fierce clip, too,—road hogs! Had it not been 
that there was a lady with a youngster in the car, he 
would have run alongside and poured a few gentle words 
into the ear of the foreign chauffeur—and his equally 
alien-looking pal. All foreigners, by the look of them 
—why the devil didn’t they keep to their own blinking 
country, if they wanted to tear about at that rate? 
However, engine trouble had pulled them up eventually, 
so he greased on and left them to it. Good luck to them. 

At Devizes he breakfasted; and whilst engaged in that 
meal, what should steal, with a soft, pleasant purr, in 
under the old coaching arch of “The Bear” but the blue 
limousine with its foreign-looking complement. They 
also proposed breakfasting at “The Bear,” seemingly. 

To the intense disgust of Mr. Rattray, they were as¬ 
signed a table near his in the breakfast-room; and with¬ 
out question they were the weirdest crew Rattray had 
ever seen emerge from a Rolls-Royce of that class. 

They were not Continentals, as he had fondly im¬ 
agined, but Americans—of a sort. The chauffeur, in ac¬ 
cordance with the best democratic principles, breakfasted 

123 


124 


THE BIG HEART 


with them, upon terms of perfect equality and fraternity. 
Domenico, Mr. Rattray gathered that his name was, 
from the raucous conversation! that clamoured around the 
sunny old room; the other gleaming-toothed person was 
“Frankie.” What those two gentlemen could not do with 
their knives in the way of shovelling food was impos¬ 
sible to conjecture. Nor was the extraordinary look¬ 
ing lady with the chocolate skin and raven hair one whit 
behind: her dexterity with les coutcaux was astounding. 
The sallow, sloe-eyed boy seemed to depend more upon 
his hands for the garnering of sustenance than any lethal 
weapons; but his speed of acquirement was quite equal to 
that of his armed elders. They drank champagne with 
the meal, with the exception of the youth, who partook 
of tea: an operation that could have been heard distinctly 
at considerable distance. 

Mr. Rattray paid his bill—the elderly white-whiskered 
waiter seizing upon the opportunity to turn his eyes in 
the direction in which, until then, he had devoutly believed 
his Maker to inhabit. 

“ ’Orrible, sir,” he whispered; “in an ’ouse like this, too 
—truly ’orrible. Er—thank you, sir. Good morning.” 

Running out the “Triumph” again, Rattray took stock 
of the big limousine. It was a beauty; there was no 
error about that. Perfect—in every particular. He 
noticed the trunks upon the rack behind—American—• 
cabin-sized and brand new—every one of them. With 
idle curiosity he scanned the number-plate. 

“Well, A. 6873,” he murmured, “if that little crowd 
in there are your owners, I’m sorry for you. A gippo 
caravan is more in their line.” 

With which cold criticism he set sail along the old- 
fashioned street, and the heavy punch of the single¬ 
cylinder throbbed away into the open country. 

At about the same moment Mr. Bowes-Chevington, at* 



FIRST BLOOD 


125 


tired in garments of so unique a combination that it would 
have been difficult to have told whether cycling, golfing 
or a fancy-dress carnival were his ultimate intent, were 
it not for the heavy bicycle he was grinding wearily along 
the Sunbury Road. 

Deep and darkly did he curse the Chief of Staff who 
had condemned him to this tortuous and torturing mode 
of progression. However, orders being orders, there 
was nothing else for it; so he plugged steadily on, wip¬ 
ing the sweat from his suffering brow—a martyr to duty. 

People—nice people—stared at him aghast as he ped¬ 
alled by; whereat he grinned hugely, and felt com¬ 
pensated for the efforts spent upon his attire. He rather 
flattered himself that it was a howler—as per verbal in¬ 
structions received from Chief of Staff upon the evening 
previous. 

Having ascertained the latitude and longitude of the 
great gates of Mr. Hammerden’s residence, Bowes-Chev- 
ington rode slowly in their direction. When about 
twenty yards from their open shelter, he gingerly drew 
from the pocket of his outrageous Norfolk coat, a most 
artistically broken bottom of a beer bottle, which he 
hurled up the road before him, and proceeded to ride over, 
with the utmost care and deliberation. A loud plonk 
and the venomous hiss of escaping air informed him that 
the dirty deed was accomplished. 

To a patch of grass that skirted the walls beyond the 
gates of “Braylings” he removed his damaged machine 
and sank upon the soft sward: he was never more thank¬ 
ful to sink upon anything in his life. Mr. Bowes-Chev- 
ington would have given untold wealth to have lain back 
and fallen into gentle slumber; but the stern call of duty 
prevailing, he girded up his loins, removed his coat, tore 
off the outer cover of his front wheel, placed in prominent 
view a shilling mending outfit, purchased along the road, 





126 


THE BIG HEART 


and endeavoured to look as distracted at his misfortunes 
as possible. Not the great, the immortal Vidocq, not 
even Sherlock Holmes himself, dressing-gown, pipe and 
all, could, in Mr. Bowes-Chevington’s unhumble opinion, 
have arranged matters with a nicer discrimination. 

He was in the thick of cheerfully gumming himself 
up with solution when a curious snuffle at his elbow 
caused him to turn sharply; he found himself gazing into 
the solitary beady eye of a huge, patch-faced bull-terrier. 
Upon his knees he fumbled for the monocle—carefully 
concealed in his vest-pocket for this occasion and with¬ 
out which he felt in a state of partial nakedness—ad¬ 
justed it, and returned the scrutiny with tremendous in¬ 
terest. 

“And very nice too,” announced he judicially. “One 
of the old-fashioned sort, you, my lad. A topper!” 

Now whether Old Punch, eyeing the gleaming monocle, 
and being accustomed to young gentlemen who favoured 
that adornment, accepted it as a sign-manual of brother¬ 
hood with the Great One who owned him is uncertain; 
but he accepted the friendly amenities offered, and his 
whip tail began to swing slowly with entire good-nature. 

First sniffing carefully at the discarded outer cover, he 
settled himself down to watch the sticky efforts of the 
monocled stranger with grave curiosity. Glancing up in 
the course of an entirely one-sided conversation, mainly 
adulatory, Bowes-Chevington spotted a small brass plate 
upon the deep, padlocked throat-guard of his visitor. An 
inspection conveyed the information that the canine’s 
name was “Old Punch—the Property of Captain Patrick 
Courtenay, R.F.A.—if strayed, kindly feed, and return 
to Depot.” 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington regarded his new-found chum 
again with even greater interest. 

“Oh, you’re the feller, are you?” he admonished. 




FIRST BLOOD 


127 


“Heard of you; and I can bally well believe all I've heard. 
H’m. Well, old dear, I’m out after the King Pin this 
trip, and. . . 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington stopped suddenly—upon his 
ears fell the cranking grind of a motor-car changing 
gears. Pie whipped his monocle back into the temporary 
seculsion of his waistcoat pocket, and bent closely over 
his repairing job. The car came on and, at the gates, 
stopped. 

“Can you tell me if I’m at Mr. John Hammerden’s 
residence?” inquired a suave and very American voice. 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington looked up; wiped a perspiring 
face, and stared fully at the inquirer. 

“Aha!” thought he, “this is my bloke!” 

He glanced up at where, upon ornamental shields on 
the stone pillar of the gate, the name “Braylings” stood 
proudly blazoned. 

“Pm a stranger here,” he returned. “Had a puncture. 
That’s the name of the place—‘Braylings.’ ” 

“Thanks,” said the other in a thoughtful drawl. “This 
will be the place, I reckon.” He leaned back in his seat 
with a nod; when suddenly Bowes-Chevington noted his 
glance fall upon the dog, which had turned and was re¬ 
garding him. 

“That’s a nice dog you’ve got there, friend,” he said 
slowly. “First cropped bull and terrier I’ve seen on this 
side. I’m sort of keen on them.” 

He got slowly out of the car and came across; stooped 
and patted Old Punch, who stood eyeing him fixedly; he 
moved his hands around the heavy collar, nodding his 
head slowly; then, favouring the watching cyclist with 
another of his lightning glances, smiled curiously. 

“Yes,” he repeated slowly; “a nice dog, friend; a nice 
dog. Reckon he could give a man all he wanted when 
his blood was up.” 




128 


THE BIG HEART 


Without waiting for any response to this observation, 
he returned to the car, and nodding again with that curi¬ 
ous derisive smile, gave his chauffeur the order to pro¬ 
ceed ; leaving Mr. Bowes-Chevington considerably in¬ 
trigued by the encounter. 

“The party of the first part, without a doubt, old bean,” 
confided that gentleman to his canine companion; “but 
what the blazes his especial interest in you means, blowed 
if I know. Also, it’s a Daimler Hire Service jigger, and 
not a blue limousine. Mr. Bill Blakeley don’t bally well 
know everything. Point is,” reflected the lurking 
shadower, “how the dooce I’m to follow his nibs on this 
busted old doin’s? Wants a bit of thinkin’ out.” 

Proceeding slowly up the broad drive, Mr. Derrick H. 
Levigne was also reviewing a combination of circum¬ 
stances that seemed to him to point to a plain conclusion. 

“Bull-terrier in Hammerden’s office—same at Ham- 
merden’s gate. Young gentleman interfered with 
Howarth; same, in comic-opera disguise, stranded with 
a broken-down cycle outside Hammerden’s gate. Name, 
Captain Patrick Courtenay—I must remember that.” He 
smiled broadly. “I wonder,” he mused slowly, “what 
the devil sort of kibe they take me to be? We’ll see.” 

Seated in an arbour near the house, a male stenographer 
typewriting at his dictation, was one whose face Mr. Le¬ 
vigne instantly recognized. Before him was the great, 
the mighty, Jacob J. Schornhurst. So Mr. John Ham- 
merden was entertaining the elite of the financial world 
—information worth knowing. 

As he reached the entrance-hall, two elegantly-dressed 
ladies passed out on to the lawn. One he recognized as 
Mrs. Jacob J., the other, and younger, he had heard ad¬ 
dress her companion as “Momma,” so that her identifica¬ 
tion was no mystery. 

A door opened and an extremely beautiful young lady 


FIRST BLOOD 


129 


entered the broad hallway quickly. Seeing Mr. Levigne 
standing waiting, she stopped and inquired of him pleas¬ 
antly if he were waiting to see her father. 

With his most restrained bow, Mr. Levigne replied 
that if her father were Mr. John Hammerden, he was 
there to see him by appointment. 

At that moment a servant appeared and took his card, 
upon which the name of David J. Hartnell was engraved; 
whereupon the pleasant young lady bowed and vanished 
after her friends. 

And John Hammerden—Arthur Haybridge—had a 
daughter. Good! No lever like family ties, affection 
of kindred, when the pressure had to be applied. The 
Fates were setting out the game for Mr. Levigne entirely 
to his satisfaction. 

Mr. Llammerden received him in the big bay-windowed 
room, his foot still bandaged and upon a stool before him. 
He nodded curtly, and indicated a chair upon the other 
side of his writing-table. There was a grim look upon 
his face, and his great jaw was thrust truculently to¬ 
wards his visitor. There was no attitude of the suppliant 
about Mr. John Hammerden: his manner was bluntly 
contemptuous. 

“A dangerous man,” thought Mr. Levigne, as he set¬ 
tled himself in the chair indicated. “A fighter.” 

“Crook,” summarized Mr. Hammerden swiftly. 
“Cunning and unscrupulous.” 

He pushed a cigar-box across the table. “Smoke,” he 
said abruptly. 

Mr. Levigne took a cigar and lit it carefully. When 
it was well alight he leant back in his chair—waiting. 

“Well, come straight to the point,” began the big man 
bluntly. “What’s your graft—and what are your 
terms ?” 

“The graft, as you call it,” Mr. Levigne answered 



130 


THE BIG HEART 


softly, “you know* as well as I do, Mr. Arthur Hay- 
bridge.” 

“Do I? I’m not so sure. Now the price?” 

“A quarter of a million cold,” said Levigne firmly. 
“Pounds—not dollars.” 

Mr. Hammerden laughed: it was not a pleasant sound. 
“Whoever you are,” he said, “you’ve got nerve! Who 
are you?” he demanded. 

“My card,” said the other, indicating that pasteboard, 
“is in front of you.” 

Mr. Hammerden picked it up, glanced at it and tossed 
it back. 

“I don’t take any notice of that,” he said. “That 
name’s as straight as your job—and you know how 
straight that is. What are you?” 

“That,” responded Mr. Levigne pointedly, “is my busi¬ 
ness.” 

“Is it?” retorted the big man. “I’m not so sure. In 
any case, I’m not the sort of man to hand over a quarter 
of a million to any blackmailer that chooses to blow along 
and demand it.” 

Mr. Levigne smiled and shook his head slowly. 

“In this case, Mr. Arthur Haybridge,” he said with 
emphasis, “you haven’t a great deal of option.” 

The big man leaned towards him. 

“In this house,” he said, “and elsewhere, my name is 
John Hammerden. Use it.” 

“S’pose I prefer the other?” asked Levigne with half- 
closed eyes. 

“Then get out!” hissed Mr. Hammerden. “And quick, 
too.” 

“Hammerden,” snapped Mr. Levigne, “quit that talk. 
I didn’t come here to bluff. I came here to make a 
bargain.” 

“A quarter of a million—to what?” 


FIRST BLOOD 


131 


“Your freedom.” 

“Do you propose to take it from me?” 

Mr. Levigne’s eyes narrowed. 

‘'Yes, by God, I do,” he answered. “And I will, if 
you don’t come over.” 

“On whose word?—Howarth’s?” 

“I’ve more than Howarth’s word to go on. I can get 
you when I want you.” 

“Go ahead,” said Mr. Hammerden calmly. “It won’t 
be long before you’ll wish you hadn’t.” 

“Long enough to send you back to execution, my 
friend,” returned the other. “Don’t forget you’re un¬ 
der sentence of death now—today.” 

“That so?” inquired the big man pleasantly. 

“Get it out of your mind that I’m standing on Bart 
Howarth’s evidence alone. There’s another here that can 
do all I want—and will, if you don’t come to terms.” 

“Oh?” said Mr. Hammerden. “And who might this 
other string to your bow be?” 

“Lona Howarth,” replied Levigne with quick triumph. 
“You remember her, Haybridge. Lona Howarth, Mrs. 
Eric Royal—Lady Racedene, I suppose I should call her.” 

For some seconds Hammerden sat and watched the 
other in silence. He was thinking—thinking hard. So 
Lona was not dead, and that was part of the game, after 
all. Lona!—Lady Racedene! The big man eyed the 
light of triumph on the other’s face, and it spelt danger. 
Danger, deep and irreparable—to her. Hammerden’s 
brain, working at tension, decided upon his line of action. 

He broke into a broad smile. 

“You poor fool,” he said quietly. “You poor, be¬ 
nighted fool, to think you can get away with this stuff 
on me!” He laughed with a note of keen enjoyment. 
“It won’t go,” he said pleasantly. “You’ll have to find 
another market.” 





132 


THE BIG HEART 


The telephone upon his table rang sharply; with a 
humorous shake of his head towards Levigne, he non¬ 
chalantly swung upon his chair and picked the receiver 
up. 

“Yes?” he called drawlingly. “Hullo?” He listened 
a moment, then answered back. “I’m busy just now 
with a visitor—ring me in five minutes.” 

He replaced the receiver and yawned. At that mo¬ 
ment his daughter and her friend crossed the lawn before 
the window: with them the big bull-terrier—the dog be¬ 
longing to the stranger who did not know Mr. Hammer- 
den’s name. Mr. Levigne’s lips tightened significantly. 

Penelope, in passing, waved a hand to her father. Mr. 
Hammerden, with a smile, responded genially, and they 
passed on. Levigne’s eyes suddenly flamed, and he 
thrust a livid face close to the other man’s. “What’ll she 
say, Haybridge?—that pretty kid of yours—when 
she . . .” 

He stopped with a sudden gurgle. Hammerden’s 
great hand had him in a vice-like grip by the throat. With 
a twist of agony the big man rose and towered over him, 
forcing him down on to his back upon the table; his 
other hand gripping the crook’s wrists in an unbreakable 
grip. 

“You scum!” he hissed; “you dirty jail rat! You ever 
come near my girl with your filthy mouth and foul accu¬ 
sation, and I will commit a murder! D’ye hear me?” 

He shook Levigne as he might have done an infant; 
then, jerking a drawer of his table open, took from it a 
long-barrelled polished revolver. He tossed the man 
away from him with a sprawl, and, when he recovered 
his feet, had him covered by the deadly tube. 

“Get out,” he went on, in a quiet, menacing voice. 
“And keep your hands in front of you!” he ordered 
quickly. 


FIRST BLOOD 


133 


Mr. Levigne returned his glare fixedly for a full mo¬ 
ment, then shrugged his shoulders. 

“Right, Haybridge,” he said in a still, sinister tone; 
“it’s war. We’ll see who wins.” He picked up his hat 
and walked steadily out of the room. 

Mr. Hammerden replaced the revolver in his drawer, 
and sat staring before him. Again the telephone bell 
at his elbow rang noisily. With a gesture not untouched 
by weariness, he lifted the receiver. 

“Hullo?” he asked. “That you, Courtenay? . . . 
Yes. Just gone. As I feared, they’re threatening to 
play Lona Royal. I’ve called the bluff and it’s war. 
So . . . get busy, you boys, and get busy quick—for 
the woman’s sake.” 

“Right ho!” had answered the cheery voice of Mr. 
Patrick Courtenay across the wire. “They’ll find they’ve 
bitten off more than they can chew.” 

Mr. Derrick H. Levigne stepped quietly into the Daim¬ 
ler; calmly ordered the chauffeur to put the hood back 
and drive slowly: not one trace was there to be seen upon 
his calm face of the rage that was blazing at his 
heart. 

At a turn in the leafy drive he again caught sight of 
the two beautiful girls, wandering along, deep in con¬ 
versation, and he smiled, with a hardening of the eyes 
not pleasant to behold. 

“I think you’ll pay yet, Mr. John Hammerden,” he 
ruminated grimly. “Not what I’ve asked, but double.” 

As he passed through the gates, no man upon this 
earth had his eyes more widely open to see, or ears more 
alert to hear even the faintest rustle of a leaf, than Mr. 
Derrick H. Levigne. A swerving glance at the grass 
patch showed him that the mysterious cyclist and his 
broken-down machine were gone—not a trace of them 
to be seen about the road. Again Mr. Levigne smiled; 






134 


THE BIG HEART 


but this time more pleasantly. He leant forward and 
ordered the chauffeur to take it easily. 

It was in a quiet lane that Mr. Levigne first moved his 
position, and took a long, searching look back, front, 
and all around him. No living soul was there in sight. 
With incredible swiftness he drew something from a hip- 
pocket—something that looked as a bar of steel or iron 
covered with felt might look—raised himself noiselessly 
upon the seat. The chauffeur, pipe in mouth, was drows¬ 
ing along, gazing fixedly before him. Then he bent over, 
and struck two heavy, silent blows. 

Mr. Percival Bowes-Chevington—reclining perilously 
upon the luggage-carrier—received them full upon the 
top of his nibby little cycling-cap; and without moan or 
groan crumpled limply, and dropped silently into the 
dusty road upon his face—a tiny rill of bl(^od trickling 
from behind one ear. 

In another instant Mr. Levigne was back in his seat, 
viewing the surrounding vista with bland and intelli¬ 
gent interest. He leaned forward and touched the 
chauffeur upon the arm. 

“Let her go now,” he ordered. “Pm about through 
here.” 

Two minutes later the Daimler had swung a corner, 
and was making an excellent pace for Town. 

“First blood,” murmured Mr. Derrick H. Levigne 
smoothly; “and I think it counts to me.” 



CHAPTER XIII: “Mr. Oakley” Moves in select 
Circles. 

L IKE many another Englishman whose daily—and 
nightly—round of duty lay along sordid, exciting, 
and at times perilous paths, that stout, comfortable 
person, Detective-Inspector Joseph Dobson of Scotland 
Yard found the greatest rest of mind and body in the 
gentle pursuit of fresh-water fishing. No more earnest 
and devoted disciple of the worthy Izaak than he ever 
trod stout shoe-leather. 

It was his habit to absent himself from all duties upon 
the first week of each July as it came; and repair for 
one calendar month to a spot previously selected, there 
divesting himself mentally of all that had to do with 
crime and the criminals, to perfect himself from daylight 
till dark in the theory and practice of his beloved pisca¬ 
torial art. 

Came then this particular last evening of June. Mr. 
Dobson drew tenderly from a drawer an ancient but 
imperishable Norfolk suit of Irish homespun; gave his 
housekeeper the funds to carry on during his absence; 
went to bed; and was ready for the first gleam of morn¬ 
ing light to break upon his ideal day. 

Detective-Inspector Dobson had never married, and 
was therefore free as air to come and go, a holidaying 
or professionally, just precisely as appeared most suited 
to his individual convenience. It was one of the fixed 
tenets of Detective-Inspector Dobson’s belief that no man 
of his profession should ever, under any circumstances, 
be known abroad for what he was. So deeply rooted 

i35 


136 


THE BIG HEART 


was the belief, that even the widow lady who had super¬ 
intended his comfortable house in Oakley Street, Chel¬ 
sea, for fifteen years, had not the faintest idea of his 
calling. Indeed, at times—from his mysterious noc¬ 
turnal comings and goings—Mr. Dobson was quite cer¬ 
tain that she was not without grave suspicions that he 
was a burglar. A quiet and well-behaved one, certainly; 
but a burglar none the less. 

Upon these annual excursions of his Mr. Dobson in¬ 
variably assumed the name of Mr. Oakley (after the 
street in which he resided) ; and allowed it to be inferred 
that he was a retired green-grocer. 

For the past two summers now Mr. Dobson had found 
his way to the little willow-shaded stream that flowed 
softly by the great towers of “Claverings”—the home 
of the Earls of Racedene. He found adjacent a com¬ 
fortable Inn—run with the meticulous punctuality of a 
barrack-room, by the old “sweat” mentioned to another 
proposed visitor by the Honourable Mr. Blakeley—plain, 
wholesome fare and plenty of it; and as honest a beer 
as was at this day to be found in the land. Given all 
these blessings at a reasonable tariff, Mr. Dobson asked 
no more of any man. 

If any one particular virtue more than another fitted 
Mr. Dobson for his calling it was that he was an in¬ 
nately honest man. Plain and unimaginative, conserva¬ 
tive in his politics as in most things, a firm and stout 
believer in the Old Order: if ever a man breathed who 
feared his God and honoured his King that man was 
Joseph Dobson. 

From the broad dormer window of his spotless bed¬ 
room under the eaves Mr. Dobson—or, for the time 
being, Mr. Oakley—looked forth to where the soft russet 
of the great old Tudor mansion nestled away behind its 
centuries-old oaks. The broad sweep of the timbered 




“MR. OAKLEY” 


137 


park-lands rolling down to plough and pasture, the fal¬ 
low deer grazing under leafy bower, and, rippling around 
like some slender silver ribbon, the little stream murmur¬ 
ing its way along by luscious mead and ley. A thor¬ 
oughly satisfying sight in Mr. Oakley’s eyes, this— 
after the miles of stucco, ornate shop-fronts, and hot 
pavements of the metropolis. 

The blast of a bugle impinged musically upon Mr. 
Oakley’s comfortable and substantial reflections; and he 
betook himself down the stairway to face an equally com¬ 
fortable and substantial lunch. 

He was very pleased to make the acquaintance of that 
enthusiastic photographer, Mr. Augustus Brooks, who 
was staying at the Inn. He seemed a very pleasant, 
affable and well-informed gentleman, and photography 
was a beautiful and very useful pastime—though scarcely 
to be compared with fishing. He was particularly well- 
informed upon the subject of the war, and conversed upon 
certain portions of it with their ex-soldier host, whose 
interest in the subject was unflagging, with a certitude 
that was absolutely convincing. 

In the most casual way—and entirely without curiosity 
Mr. Oakley, before lunch was concluded, had made 
the following brief mental summary of his fellow-guest. 

Educated; probably public-school boy; ex-officer of 
artillery during war; impossible exhibit technical knowl¬ 
edge without; by deep groove above and below left eye, 
habitually wore monocle—not habit of private soldier. 
Name might be correct—might not; cigarette-case, hos¬ 
pitably offered to Mr. O. after lunch, heavily engraved 
with crest and monogram of the letters R. R.; also cig¬ 
arettes, hand-rolled, of unimpeachable tobacco, by a fa¬ 
mous and exclusive Piccadilly firm. Crest upon heavy 
signet-ring. Might be commercial traveller, taking in¬ 
definite rest, or not—commercial travellers not as a rule 





138 


THE BIG HEART 


using crests upon signet-rings or cigarette-cases; nor 
are their cigarettes purchased from the firm in question; 
neither have they the quiet gentlemanly demeanour of 
R. R. No assumption; not sufficient assurance. Dubi¬ 
ous. 

All this evolved by observation of Mr. Oakley from 
sheer force of habit. He had no curiosity concerning 
Mr. Augustus Brooks; none whatever. These were 
simply facts; facts patent at a glance to the trained 
eye. What they betokened had nothing to do with Mr. 
Oakley. 

Mr. R. R. would be a pleasant person to have that final 
hour’s chat and glass of beer with after supper. If he 
chose to call himself Mr. Augustus Brooks, and give out 
that he was a commercial traveller, he was quite as much 
entitled to do so as Detective-Inspector Dobson of Scot¬ 
land Yard was to call himself Mr. Oakley and let it be 
understood that he was a retired green-grocer. Indubit¬ 
ably he was. 

Mr. Oakley had not the remotest idea of pushing his 
nose into the affairs of his fellow-guest. His business, 
and what would be his sole and entire business for the 
next eight-and-twenty days, was fishing. In which 
equable frame of mind he took his rod-case and sought 
old and well-remembered haunts. 

At a broad, deep pool that lay behind a single-span 
bridge of great antiquity, Mr. Oakley, pipe in mouth, rod 
in hand, and a variety of the latest in flies decorating his 
old tweed cap, was busy. It was not his intention to put 
in seriously until the evening, but he was engaged in a 
little practice in the difficult arts of casting and whip- 
ping. 

Just how long he had been concentrating upon this 
important work he did not know, when he became aware 
of the fact that he was being watched—a discovery that 


“MR. OAKLEY” 


139 


made that usually phlegmatic gentleman become strangely 
self-conscious of his shortcomings. 

He glanced up to find that his observer was a small 
boy—a very well-dressed and generally well-groomed 
small boy—with very bright, intelligent eyes and a mop of 
tousled curly hair; who, squatted upon the bank, with his 
chin on his knees, was watching him intently. In the 
very bright, intelligent eyes Mr. Oakley noted a very dis¬ 
tinct gleam of criticism which rendered him more help¬ 
lessly self-conscious than ever. He knew small boys on 
stout middle-aged fishermen! Confound ’em! 

“Ha,” he breathed assertively. “I think this rod’ll do. 
What d’ye say?” He turned to his small observer with 
a particularly off-handed but good-humoured smile. It 
was sheer bluff, and he knew it. 

The Small Person nodded. 

“It looks a grand one,” he answered; “but I think, if 
you don’t mind me saying so,” he interjected politely, “I’d 
work more with my wrists and not use my arms so 
much.” 

Mr. Oakley stared at his youthful mentor in some 
amazement. There was not the slightest offensiveness 
in his well-bred little voice; nothing but a desire to be of 
assistance. 

Mr. Oakley rubbed his chin and eyed him thoughtfully. 
This was a young chap one had to go warily with; he 
was evidently a knowledgeable person. 

“Ah, would you now ?” he murmured. “You see, I was 
just getting a bit of practice before sundown. It’s a long 
time since I did anything. I only get a chance once a 
year.” 

“That’s a great pity,” responded the Small Person, “be¬ 
cause I’m sure you’d be very good at it. Of course, 
every one has to learn; and I’ve only just been taught 
the proper way myself, and so I know.” 


140 


THE BIG HEART 


“Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a tip or 
two,” said Mr. Oakley cheerily. 

“Certainly,” returned the Small Person. 

With the most supreme self-possession he came down 
the bank, rolled his coat-sleeves to the elbow, took Mr. 
Oakley’s rod and wound in some ten yards of that gen- - 
tleman’s line. 

“It’s a beautiful rod,” he complimented; “but of course 
it’s rather heavy for me.” 

“I suppose it is, a bit,” assented Mr. Oakley, wonder¬ 
ing what the deuce this young fellow would be at next. 

“And, of course, you’re in a very bad place to cast. 
Fearful bad.” 

“Of course, of course!” put in Mr. Oakley hurriedly. 

The Small Person nodded, eyeing the water frown- 
ingly. 

“If you’d got a bite,” he remarked, “you’d have been 
in an awful hole. Reeds one side and the bridge on the 
other—sure to have lost your fish and your line.” 

Mr. Oakley felt himself the merest tyro before such 
acumen as this. 

He retired back until his line of shadow was well off 
the water. Mr. Oakley watched this performance with 
considerable interest. 

“Why go back there?” he inquired. 

“My tutor says,” answered the Small Person impres¬ 
sively, “that fishes have awful keen eyes—sharp as 
needles; so it isn’t much good to cast flies over 
them while they’re watching you at it.” He eyed Mr. 
Oakley questioningly. “Seems perfectly right, doesn’t 
it?” 

Mr. Oakley pondered this piece of piscatorial wisdom a 
moment. “It does indeed,” he answered slowly. “Per¬ 
fectly right. That’s a thing worth knowing. Your tutor 
is a very wise gentleman.” 



“MR. OAKLEY” 141 

“Oh, he’s most frightfully clever!” declared the Small 
Person enthusiastically. ff Frightfully!” 

“You notice my elbows?” demanded the Small Person 
suddenly. 

“I do,” answered Mr. Oakley, solemnly staring at those 
rather sharp members fixedly. 

“Well, watch ’em,” he was ordered sharply. 

Mr. Oakley did: he noticed that they scarcely moved 
as the line whistled out across the pool, revolving in a 
clean circle and so lightly that the fly touched and darted 
half-a-dozen times across the ripples as if possessed of 
life itself, the effortless movement of the fragile wrist 
bringing the lure back and back over the water with a 
surety of cast that held that worthy gentleman in spell¬ 
bound admiration. 

“Beautiful!” he ejaculated at last. “Beautiful! I 
never saw finer—never saw as good,” he amended gen¬ 
erously. 

The Small Person blushed a deep crimson to his ears. 

“If I could cast like that I’d—Pd die happy,” said 
Mr. Oakley fervently. “Just once again,” he suggested 
persuasively, “until I try and catch the knack of it. I’ll 
have a try myself this evening.” 

With unerring instinct the small expert put his finger 
directly upon Mr. Oakley’s weak spot. 

“You don’t like trying these things in front of any 
one else, do you?” he inquired confidentially. “At least, 
I don’t.” 

“I’m a bit nervous, you see,” explained Mr. Oakley, 
with a humourous smile. This was certainly a most 
amazing boy. 

“Oh, that’s very bad,” said the Small Person sympa¬ 
thetically. “Nerves are very bad things. I know, you 
see, because I had a doctor for years and years about 
them; but I’ve grown out of them now. I’m ten,” he 


142 


THE BIG HEART 


announced suddenly; “and so I’ve grown out of them. 
You ought to have grown out of yours by now, you 
know.” 

“I should indeed,” said Mr. Oakley, “but somehow or 
other I haven’t.” 

The Small Person reflected a moment. “Perhaps yours 
were worse than mine?” he suggested. 

“I think they must have been,” responded Mr. Oakley. 
“Very bad.” 

“That’s very sad,” said the Small Person, shaking his 
head very seriously. “Pills are what you ought to have. 
Pills and iron medicine—rotten tack; but it cures you— 
that and beef-tea.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Oakley slowly, “I fancy they must 
have overlooked the beef-tea. I don’t remember having 

y y 

any. 

“That’s what it is,” assured the Small Person tri¬ 
umphantly, spinning the line out over the water again. 
“I should certainly see about the beef-tea.” 

“I will,” assured Mr. Oakley, “the moment I get back 
to London.” 

For the next ten minutes Mr. Oakley watched the artis¬ 
tic performance of his young mentor; then, divesting 
himself of his coat and a little of his shyness, proceeded 
to take a few lessons, with marked benefit to his style and 
effectiveness; for which he thanked his new-found friend 
heartily. 

“You’re not going to fish till evening, of course?” con¬ 
tinued the engaging Small Person, with complete cer¬ 
titude. “Not really fish.” 

“Of course not,” rejoined Mr. Oakley. 

“You come with me,” commanded the Small Person, 
“and I’ll show you the finest bit about here.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” responded Mr. Oakley; 
“very kind, I’m sure.” 


“MR. OAKLEY” 


143 


Mr. Oakley packed his rod, assisted by the Small Per¬ 
son, who found for its appointments and fittings nothing 
but the most unstinted praise. Praise doubly dear to Mr. 
Oakley from one so naturally gifted. 

Mr. Oakley was under a very distinct impression that 
the three-railed fence over which the Small Person clam¬ 
bered and invited him to follow was a boundary of the 
property of the Earl of Racedene. Passing it would be 
encroaching upon the property of a Peer of the Realm, 
and if not extremely careful he might find himself test¬ 
ing the delights of the nearest lock-up, until such time as 
some responsible person could be dragged forward to 
rescue him. He did not think the affable and engaging 
Small Person leading him into the possible byways of 
crime would count for much when it came to a matter of 
bail. 

But the Small Person slid across the fence with such 
nonchalance and seemed so completely at his ease upon 
the property of the nobleman that Mr. Oakley cumber- 
somely followed: he had no doubt the Small Person had 
a permit from the Earl. 

Across meadows of green lush grass, through isolated 
herds of cattle, of which this amazing young fellow 
showed not the slightest nervousness, they bent their 
steps towards where a belt of heavy timber denoted again 
the line of the little stream. 

“Two I had out of where I’m going to show you, yes¬ 
terday evening,” informed the Small Person. “I took 
them with a Zulu. One two pounds, seven ounces, and 
one”—he breathed these figures with open pride—“two 
pounds and eleven ounces.” He looked at Mr. Oakley 
as though with a silent and modest demand for some ap¬ 
preciation of this sterling feat. 

“Nod” breathed his listener in very genuine admira¬ 
tion. 


144 


THE BIG HEART 


“Of course, my tutor helped me/' added the Small 
Person, with laboured sense of honesty. 

“Who hooked them?” demanded Mr. Oakley. 

“Oh, I did,” assured the Small Person quickly, “and 
played them; but I couldn’t have landed them by my¬ 
self.” 

“They’re your fish,” decided Mr. Oakley judicially. 
“You might as well say that I catch a fish, and because 
you help me to land him, that I didn’t catch the fish. 
Must stick to facts—you caught them.” 

The Small Person looked very pleased at this whole¬ 
hearted pronouncement. 

“Pm glad you think that,” he said, “because I wouldn’t 
like to say so if it wasn’t so.” 

“Set your mind at rest,” advised Mr. Oakley. 

He had noticed that for some time they had been skirt¬ 
ing an iron hurdle fence, behind which glimpses of gar¬ 
dens and lawns gave warning of the extremely private 
nature of that portion of the domain. Mr. Oakley’s 
trepidation returned to him in strength. 

“I say,” he ventured tentatively, “do you come here 
often?” 

“I go anywhere I like,” announced the Small Person 
stoutly. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Oakley, with forced facetiousness, 
“but I’m a horse of another colour.” 

“I’m sure you’re a very pleasant person,” persisted the 
Small Person. “Why shouldn’t you come with me?” 

“Well,” said Mr. Oakley, somewhat at a loss to explain 
to this exceedingly democratic chap, “you see, the Earl 
mightn’t like it.” 

“Oh!” interrupted the Small Person. “Oh! I’m so 
sorry. Of course! I quite forgot.” 

“That’s all right,” exclaimed Mr. Oakley heartily. 
“That’s quite all right, old chap.” 


“MR. OAKLEY” 


145 


“You see, everybody knows, so I didn’t remember,” 
cryptically went on the Small Person, with a very flushed 
countenance. He climbed down from the fence, and of¬ 
fered a somewhat muddy and certainly sticky hand to 
Mr. Oakley, who accepted it heartily; albeit somewhat 
wonderingly. 

“Pm fearfully sorry. Would you please tell me your 
name ?” 

“My name,” said Mr. Oakley hesitatingly—for some 
unearthly reason he jibbed at uttering even so trivial a 
falsehood to this very frank-eyed Small Person—“is— 
er—Oakley—Joseph Oakley.” 

“Then I invite you to come here, Mr. Oakley,” he went 
on, “and to fish or shoot or—or—” he waved a hand 
vaguely across the surrounding country—“or anything 
you like. My mother, Pm sure, would be very pleased, 
too.” 

Mr. Oakley regarded the Small Person with consid¬ 
erable perplexity. 

“And who,” he asked, rubbing his hand through his 
hair and drawing a deep breath, “who might you be?— 
if it isn’t a rude question.” 

“Me,” answered the Small Person, casually, climbing 
back again to the top of the fence. “Oh, I’m the Earl 
of Racedene; but I hate that sort of rot. I’d sooner be 
called Eric.” 

Mr. Oakley’s pipe dropped from his. mouth, and he 
stared' at his youthful host in unaffected amazement. 

“Well, I be—I mean—well, Pm blowed!” he gasped. 

“Of course,” remarked the Small Person sympa¬ 
thetically. “You would be—not knowing.” 






CHAPTER XIV: Mr. Courtenay Sallies Forth 


“XT OW > w ^ iere ^ le divil,” demanded Mr. Courtenay 

AX] irately, “has that—that lunatic Percival gone 
and hidden himself?” 

As no one present possessed the solution to this conun¬ 
drum, no response was forthcoming, and a thoughtful 
silence settled upon the group. 

The rendezvous for this meeting, specially called to 
receive and discuss the reports of the various delegates, 
was a little pub not a thousand miles from Jermyn Street. 
In a back parlour, well hidden from the occupants of 
the small bar, Mr. Courtenay had assembled his legions; 
there the Honourable Mr. Blakeley, Major Galbraith, 
Mr. James Carrington and Mr. Barnaby Ferriby con¬ 
sidered one another reflectively; or, rather, bent their in¬ 
tellect upon the immediate problem of the absconding 
Mr. Percival Bowes-Chevington. Mr. Ferriby rose. 

“Why not stick an ad in the Agony column of the 
Times?” he exclaimed vacuously. “You know—‘Percy 
come home—mother ill—all forgiven.’ Somethin’ of 
that sort.” 

“If I didn’t know to the contrary,” answered Mr. 
Courtenay severely, “I’d say you were an infernal idiot.” 

“I’ll say it, anyhow,” put in the Major irately. “This 
is no time for that bally tosh. If you can’t offer a— 
a decent elucidation—shut up.” 

“Keep your shirt on,” returned Mr. Ferriby equably. 
“It’s somethin '—and that’s better than nothin’, what?” 

Mr. Carrington fingered the stem of a wine-glass ab¬ 
sently. “Can all say what you like,” he remarked sud- 

146 


MR. COURTENAY SALLIES FORTH 147 


denly, “but Eve known old B. C. since we were kids. 
Eton with me and all that. He doesn’t know what ‘quit’ 
means. It’s my opinion that he’s still on the tail of 
that blighter—either that, or he’s knocked out and in the 
soup.” 

“I agree with you,” said the Major stoutly. “Said 
that same to my missus last night.” 

“There’s no doubt that he was after him,” put in Mr. 
Courtenay. “There was his bike hidden behind the wall, 
just where he’d planted it; all punctured and pulled to 
pieces.” 

The Honourable Mr. Blakeley subjected a print of Mr. 
Elwes famous Dun Cock of the Game to an intent 
scrutiny. 

“And s’posing,” he asked slowly, “our little Percy is 
on the danger-list? What are we going to do about it?” 

“We’ve got to have him out,” answered Paddy Cour¬ 
tenay firmly. “Be hook or be crook, we’ve got to get 
him clear!” 

“True, O King,” responded the Honourable Bill. 
“How?” 

“We’re at an impasse ” said the Major, shaking his 
head sadly. “There’s not the faintest trace of him—or 
this blackmailing villain.” 

“To be plain,” sighed Mr. Courtenay, “there’s not the 
faintest trace of anny of them. Yet they’re there, and 
they’re at work.” He turned to Carrington. “Nothing 
from your end yet, Jimmy?” 

Mr. Carrington shook his head. “Not a sign, old 
thing,” he answered disconsolately. “I and the lady have 
pretty well poisoned ourselves in the good cause;—but— 
napoo —every time. I’ve had two goes at that room; but 
it’s locked now, and in darkness.” 

“Birds taken fright and flown,” commented the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill. 


148 


THE BIG HEART 


“Expect that’s about it,” admitted Mr. Carrington rue¬ 
fully. “However, I’m picking the lock of that bally door 
tonight. I’ll see what’s in there, anyhow.” 

“Good man,” said Ferriby encouragingly. 

“Any news from Wiltshire?” asked Patrick. 

“Letter from Rats this morning,” answered Mr. Blake¬ 
ley, digging in the pockets of his morning coat and fish¬ 
ing out a much crumpled epistle. “Things seem pretty 
right down there. However, I’ll read what he says.” 

He opened up the epistle, smoothed it out. 

“ ‘Dear Bill’ ” he read, “ ‘so far things here all O. K. Am in 
close touch with Desmond (rattling fine chap, by the way) and 
photographing “Claverings” from every angle possible 
to the human eye. Have given attention, as directed, to the 
fair Hilda at the P. O.; fed her with coins and Rupert Brooke’s 
poetry and she will now take light nourishment from the hand. 
Pub here ripping—beer, extra. Very decent old cock staying 
here, by name Oakley, retired tradesman. Kept a tight eye 
on him at first, but am satisfied about him. 

“ ‘Strangely, made acquaintance and great friends with young 
E. R., the boy fishing with him in the private waters, etc. 
Watched it a bit suspiciously at first, but quite all right. Des¬ 
mond had old chap to tea to pump him, but quite satisfied noth¬ 
ing wrong. Funny mixture. However, pleases the kid and 
amuses Mr. O., so all’s well. 

“ ‘Understand Lady R. coming to Town on business today 
or tomorrow, but that you'll probably know.’— 

“Which I didn’t,” commented the Honourable Bill, 
looking up. “Expect there’ll be a wire or something at 
my rat-pit when I get back.” He resumed his reading of 
Mr. Rattray's letter. 

“ ‘Nothing has come through P. O. here by telegraph or 
telephone in any way inimical, that I know; and no letters for 
strangers, except two, London W. C. postmark, for woman 
staying at Deep-bottom Farm—three miles off—name, Mrs. 


MR. COURTENAY SALLIES FORTH 149 


Gertrude H. Lomax. Will go out with camera first thing in 
the morning and investigate Gerty. 

“ ‘Best to all the boys and no more at present from your 

“ Augustus Brooks/ ” 

“Good old Gus!” exclaimed Mr. Ferriby. 

“Regular blinkin’ sleuth!” declared Mr. Carrington. 

The Major glanced at him. 

“That’s the way to make a report,” he snapped. “All 
the ground covered—everything in due rotation. Splen¬ 
did idea, that post-office girl—sap their line of com¬ 
munication. Dashed fine idea.” 

The Honourable Bill bowed modestly. “I flater my¬ 
self it is,” he murmured. “It was mine. Dashed fine 
wench, too, by the way. There’s a postscript,” he added, 
and read on: 

“ ‘If anybody knows of some good Love and Slaughter 
poetry, in a pretty binding, bung it on—forthwith. 
Gus.’ ” 

“That’s the stuff to administer!” chuckled Mr. Ferriby. 
“I’ll dig some out today.” 

Mr. Courtenay, who had sat very silent and thoughtful^ 
lifted his head suddenly. “I’m worried about B. C.,” he 
said, abruptly. “Dashed worried.” 

“So am I,” corroborated the Major earnestly 
“There’s something wrong, I’ll swear.” 

Patrick nodded. “I’ve laid low for a start,” he went 
on with deliberation, “and so has Blakeley; because they 
knew us two, and we wanted to let you chaps get on the 
track. Now it’s come to mysterious disappearances, it’s 
time to get on another tack. It seems to me that I’d bet¬ 
ter step well into the open and draw their fire.” 

Again a thoughtful silence fell upon the little parlour. 
The Honourable Bill fidgeted restlessly. 

Mr. Carrington coughed mildly, and rubbed a hand 
ruminatively across his chin. 


150 


THE BIG HEART 


“Any of you blokes,” he began haltingly, “know any¬ 
thing of a night show called the Cercle d’ltalie?” 

“Innocent,” answered Mr. Blakeley promptly; the 
others shook their heads negatively. 

“Ah!” uttered Mr. Carrington cryptically, and lapsed 
again into silence. 

Mr. Blakeley eyed him askance. 

“You haven’t got to take your words out and bally well 
wipe ’em here,” he observed with acerbity. “If there’s 
anythin’ doin’—cough it up.” 

“I was only worrying that there mightn’t be,” re¬ 
sponded Mr. Carrington; “so I was keeping the show to 
myself until I knew.” He produced from his pocket a 
ticket which admitted one gentleman and one lady to 
a special dansant held at the etc., etc. “Spodani has been 
very anxious to lumber me with one of those, from the 
first night I blew in,” he explained. “It just occurred 
to me that if I had been spotted—if they were keepin’ 
dark on my account, it might be the sort of show where 
they’d try . . .” He broke off with a shrug, and looked 
inquiringly around. “What d’ye think?” 

Mr. Blakeley held out his hand. “Let’s have a look 
at that,” he demanded. Mr. Carrington passing it over, 
the Honourable Bill studied it closely. “H’m,” he said 
at length. “I thought I knew every den in Greek Street, 
but I don’t know this. Up a back alley, I’ll lay a quid.” 
He turned the pasteboard over. “No printer’s name on 
it,” he commented. “Looks fishy —beautifully fishy, 
Jimmy. I believe you’re on a good wicket.” 

Mr. Carrington beamed hopefully. “Well, I—I had 
an idea , you know, that it might be. The girl and I 
chowed it over, and decided that it was on—very much 
so.” 

“You’re not going to take a—a lady on a chase like 



MR. COURTENAY SALLIES FORTH 151 


that?” demanded Mr. Courtenay in very genuine abhor¬ 
rence. “A dance in some den that—” 

“Don’t; do not fret yourself, there’s a good feller,” ap¬ 
pealed Mr. Carrington calmly. “This vierge would 
dance round the rim of hell if it was beeswaxed, and 
some one whistled a jazz. You needn’t worry.” 

Patrick smiled grimly: “I’m not going to, Jamesey,” 
he said quietly; “because I’m taking this job on myself. 
Pass over that ticket,” he ordered. The Honourable Bill 
concealed the suspicious pasteboard in his pocket with 
decided alacrity. 

“Not on your little life, Paddy,” he replied cheerfully. 
“This is my little doin’s. I’ll attend this little function, 
thank ye.” 

“Oh, I say, look here!” exclaimed Mr. Carrington, 
starting up. “Oh, dammit!” 

The Honourable Bill glared at him witheringly. 

“Sit down, you priceless idiot,” he hissed venomously. 
“You go and tell Spodani your servant’s done it in by 
accident, and get another. That’s what you’ll do.” 

Mr. Carrington subsided, somewhat mollified. 

“Now, look here, Bill,” said Mr. Carrington, regard¬ 
ing him firmly. “It’s not a bit of good your arguing the 
matter. I’m going to go.” 

The Honourable Bill sighed. 

“If you'll only listen to me,” he began, “you’ll see that 
you're talkin’ the most arrant tosh imaginable. I appeal 
to the Major. Where is the sense of your tackling the 
job on the off-chance of the one man you know by sight 
being there? I’ve seen the lot; and if they mean putting 
the lid on Jimmy there, I’ll know the gang. What do 
you say, Major?” 

“There’s a lot in what Blakeley says, Courtenay,” 
confirmed the Major. “If it’s a case of drawing fire— 


152 


THE BIG HEART 


and I think it is—they all know him. Only one knows 
you. Yes, I think it’s Blakeley’s job.” 

“Ye’re a precious gang,” grumbled Paddy, “but have 
it ye’re own way.” 

“That’s all settled, then,” breathed the Honourable Bill 
comfortably. “Anything else?” 

“You’ll have to find some one to take to this shivoo,” 
grinned Mr. Carrington. “Now, I can recommend—” 

The Honourable Bill cut him short with a polite, but 
unmistakable gesture of disdain. 

“Napoo!” he remarked with deep finality. “I may be 
ugly. I am. But I’ve never yet gone short of feminine 
society when I needed it, and I’m not likely to begin in 
my sere and yellow. I have a young lady in view,” he 
continued slowly, his mind revolving upon the ubiquitous 
Myrtle, “who would not only dance around the rim of 
Gehenna, but dive in and be perfectly at home.” 

“It worries me,” said Mr. Courtenay, reverting to his 
former topic. “Here are all you chaps at the game— 
and I’m doing nothing.” 

“I don’t think I’d look at it in that way,” advised 
the Major. “I fancy you’ll have more on your hands, 
before you’re much older, than you’ll quite know what to 
do with. I don’t much like the silent way that Bowes- 
Chevington has disappeared. If they’re not planning 
some smashing blow, I’m a—a Dutchman.” 

The worthy Major might have been more deeply set¬ 
tled in this pessimistic opinion could he have overheard a 
report being then made to Mr. Levigne by his cheery 
lieutenant, Mr. Jerry McGraw, at his favourite rendez¬ 
vous in the Strand. 

“That Tilbury joint,” reported Mr. McGraw, “is all 
to the good. I bin down yesterday—me an’ Frankie— 
Spodani’s got it furnished proper. Them dago bums of 


MR. COURTENAY SALLIES FORTH 153 


his is in, an’ Mr. Bart Howarth an’ his man-eatin’ dawg 
in charge. I can’t stand that guy, noways.” 

“That wing upstairs,” questioned Mr. Levigne thought¬ 
fully, “the one over the pool. Has Spodani furnished 
that ?” 

“Elegant,” replied Mr. McGraw perfunctorily. 
“Them rooms cert’nly is fit for any ladies”; he observed 
his commander narrowly. “Say,” he ventured, “what’s 
th’ lay out wit’ them rooms? Looks like you was fig¬ 
urin’ on wimmin blowin’ inta this game?” 

“I am,” said Mr. Levigne shortly. 

“Then there’ll be little old hell down there wit’ them 
guineas,” said Jerry. 

“We’ll see,” said Mr. Levigne coldly. “I think not; 
after I’ve said my say.” There was a steely ring in his 
voice that made Mr. McGraw’s eyes glint upon him ad¬ 
miringly. 

“Them dagoes’ll get what’s cornin’ when you get busy, 
Parson.” 

Mr. Levigne nodded absently. “This young chap still 
butting in at Spodani’s?” he asked. 

“Yep. Twice he’s hadda go at that room on the stair¬ 
way. Nitsky. Enrico keeps it locked. Frankie figures 
on gettin’ him f’r sure at dis dance-joint. Enrico’s fas¬ 
tened a ticket for dis dance on to him, and they’ll cert’nly 
be a mix-up.” 

“Lona was settled all right in Wiltshire?” 

“Sure. Frankie seen her at this farm place what she 
hit f’r her healt’,” grinned Mr. McGraw. “She’s drop- 
pin’ in on that high dame mebbe today.” 

Mr. Levigne nodded, then leaned forward confiden¬ 
tially. 

“Tell Frankie,” he instructed quietly, “that I’ve a big 
game on tomorrow. So big that I want no mistakes 


154 


THE BIG HEART 


made. I’ll want Domenico’s car, Frankie and you at 
nine o’clock tomorrow morning. When my job’s fin¬ 
ished, he must run to Tilbury, leave you there, and come 
back with me. Tell him to load up petrol, for we’ve got 
to go to Wiltshire and back by tomorrow night. If 
there’s any alteration in my plans I’ll let him know. 
Meet me at the usual place, nine o’clock tomorrow morn- 
in g” 

“What’s the first move?” inquired Mr. McGraw. 

“A little run to Sunbury. Sunbury to Tilbury. Til¬ 
bury to London. London to Wiltshire and back.” 

Mr. McGraw lifted his humourous eyebrows. “Seems 
like we gonna be busy,” he observed. 

“We are,” replied Mr. Levigne slowly. “It’s the be¬ 
ginning of a big game, Jerry,” he continued, with a grim 
snap of his hard-lipped mouth, “and let me get tomor¬ 
row across without a hitch, I can see the end comfortably 
in sight.” 

Mr. McGraw gazed upon his Chief with unstinted 
admiration. 

“I’ll beat it,” he said shortly, “and get things fixed 
up. 

Mr. Levigne nodded and returned to the financial 
journal he had been perusing. 

In the select back parlour not a thousand miles from 
Jermyn Street Mr. Blakeley rose and stretched himself 
with a prodigious yawn. 

“Ain’t you chaps got no homes?” he demanded, with, 
complete disregard for the dicta of the late Mr. Lindley 
Murray. “Because if you ain’t, and no one’s coming 
my way, I’m off.” 

“Better go by yourself, in any case,” advised Paddy. 
“ ’Tis as well to be on the safe side.” 

“Better try a parting ‘one,’ ” advised Mr. Carrington, 
rising and moving towards the sliding wicket-window. 


MR. COURTENAY SALLIES FORTH 155 


“Give it a name,” said Mr. Ferriby, interposing him¬ 
self. “I operate here.” 

“Not a drain,” responded Mr. Courtenay, shaking his 
head. “I don’t feel like it at all, at all.” 

“Tripe!” snorted the Honourable Bill. “You’re spoil¬ 
ing for a fight—that’s what’s the matter with you. 
Don’t like standing by.” 

“That’s the fact,” assented Mr. Courtenay gloomily. 
“I’m as miserable as the divil. When I think—” 

He broke off in amazement; staring at the door, which 
slowly opened to admit the extraordinary spectacle of 
Mr. Percival Bowes-Chevington, swathed from neck to 
crown in scientifically-adjusted bandages. His nose wore 
an exceedingly fine sample of gravel rash, one eye was 
deep purple, and he stank—literally stank—of iodoform. 

“You! Where the deuce have you sprung from?” 
gasped Paddy. 

Before replying to this burning question, Mr. Bowes- 
Chevington limped slowly in and closed the door cau¬ 
tiously. 

“Cottage Hospital, old thing,” he reported, “by Rich¬ 
mond’s sunny shores. Only came-to one o’clock this 
mornin’; blighters wouldn’t let me out. Woke up— 
found a nurse gazin’ upon me. Nice girl—Brightie 
her name.” 

“What the blazes were you doing there?” demanded 
Mr. Blakeley. 

“Two sloshes over the skull with a bar of iron,” an¬ 
swered Mr. Bowes-Chevington concisely; “that’s what 
I was doin’ there. And if it had been some of you rot¬ 
ten reeds ? you’d have been there still. After breakfast 
I cleared; tipped Brightie to dig up my rags and hopped 
it. Promised her I’d marry her if she got the push. I 
hope she don’t. Let me sit down—I’m shockin’ tottery 
on the pins.” 




156 


THE BIG HEART 


“I told them!'’ exclaimed the Major triumphantly. “I 
told 'em you were either on the job or outed.” 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington regarded him unpleasantly. 
“Oh, did you?” he said scathingly. “That was kind of 
you.” 

It was some considerable time before the afflicted gen¬ 
tleman completed his outpouring; larded and interlarded 
and garnished with many fierce and impassioned phrases. 
It stopped abruptly at the recollection of the clean-shaven 
gentleman surveying him over the back of the car—be¬ 
tween that and Brightie there was a total eclipse, so far 
as Mr. Bowes-Chevington was concerned. 

“And so,” he concluded, “after Foxy-face biffed me, 
out I went—out to the wide! Next spasm was Brightie. 
Got to Bill’s rooms; Clamper gave me the office—and 
here I am.” 

“So that really, B. C.,” mused the Major, “we’re no 
further forward?” 

“ ’Course we are!” replied B. C. indignantly. “It was 
a Daimler Hire car, and I’d know the deaf and blind 
blighter that drove it among a million. We’ll soon find 
out who had it out that trip.” 

The Major smote his knee. “Good man!” he ex¬ 
claimed. “I knew you’d get something.” 

“I have,” said Mr. Bowes-Chevington, dolorously, 
feeling tenderly at his bandaged head. “I wish you’d got 
it instead of me.” 

A brisk knock came at the outer portal; to be followed 
instantly by the cropped head and* huge ears of Mr. 
Clamper. 

“Hullo, Clamper!” hailed his lord and master. “Come 
in. Something for me?” 

“Yessir,” said Clamper, entering and closing the door 
noiselessly. From his breast pocket he drew some 
telegrams, which he placed before Mr. Blakeley. “Come 


MR. COURTENAY SALLIES FORTH 157 


within half-an-hour of each other, sir, just after Mr. 
Bowes-Chevington had gone. Thought I’d better bring 
’em myself, sir.” 

“Quite right, Clamper, quite right,” said the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill. 

“ Er ladyship’s just rung up, sir. She’s in Town, and 
will look in about four o’clock.” 

“No other message, Clamper?” 

“Nothing else, sir.” 

The Honourable Bill turned to his telegram. “By 
Gad!” he muttered, a moment later, his face gone very 
set and hard. 

“What is it?” asked Mr. Courtenay. 

For answer Mr. Blakeley tore open the other telegrams, 
read them, then smoothed them out upon the table be¬ 
fore him. 

“Listen,” he began, “the first is from Rattray.” He 
picked it up and read. “ ‘Gerty—half-caste American 
with ditto son saw same at Devizes with Italian in big 
blue Rolls-Royce limousine wire if anything dubious. 
G.us.’ ” 

He picked up the second telegram. 

“This,” he continued, “is from Rattray an hour later. 
‘Gertie called at C. with boy interviewed Desmond afraid 
trouble wire instructions. Gus.’ ” 

The third Blakeley read with a darkening face and a set 
jaw. “This is from Desmond,” he said shortly, and 
read. “ ‘Detain sister Town long as possible anticipated 
blow fallen woman here menacing.’ ” 

“Ah,” said the Major, “I thought the storm was not 
far off.” 

“She’s got to be stopped!” snarled the Honourable 
Bill, banging the table viciously. “Hammerden was 
right. They’re playing a double blackmailing game. 
She’s got to be . . 



158 


THE BIG HEART 


Paddy Courtenay rose, a particularly grim look upon 
his face. 

“I'll see to her,” he interjected shortly. “Rattray 
must stay where he is. Desmond’s tied. Where she is, 
the others will not be so far away; in communication, 
at any rate. Rattray saw that limousine car.” He 
stared for a minute at the wall opposite; the others watch¬ 
ing him in silence. “Yes, that’s it!” he ejaculated, as 
though inspired suddenly with some solution. “Ye’ll 
wire Rattray,” he instructed the Honourable Bill, “to 
keep an eye out for me tonight.” 

“Good,” said the Honourable Bill alertly. 

Mr. Courtenay closed his eyes in thought a moment. 

“You drive a car, don’t you?” he snapped suddenly 
at Ferriby. 

“My dear fellow,” answered that gentleman somewhat 
disgustedly, “I drive at Brooklands.” 

“I want a big car,” continued Paddy. “A limousine. 
Get it and have it at Blakeley’s in an hour. Off ye go.” 

“Your work’s cut out, Jimmy,” went on the Chief of 
Staff; “and you, Major, stand by tonight for orders from 
Bill.” 

The Major nodded smartly: “Good,” he said. 

“And now, Bill,” concluded Mr. Courtenay, dropping 
his voice, “where can I find a man who’ll stop at noth¬ 
ing? A man who’ll do just what he’s told and ask no 
questions. I’ll bring him back tomorrow,—or we’ll both 
be in gaol.” 

“A desperado,” said Mr. Blakeley thoughtfully. “Now 
what the devil are you up to?” 

“That’s my affair,” answered Paddy grimly. “You 
get me the man.” 

The Honourable Bill gazed ruminatively about the 
room: his wandering eye, encountering the anxious ap¬ 
pealing orbs of Mr. Clamper, came to a sudden stop. 


MR. COURTENAY SALLIES FORTH 159 


“I’d be very—” began that gentleman wistfully. “That 
is, of course, if you was to—” Here he broke down 
and transferred his beseeching gaze to Mr. Courtenay, 
who stared at him in amazement. 

“You, Clamper ?” he gasped. “You!” 

“Very desp’rate character me, sir,—afore the war,” 
began Clamper with painful anxiety. “Guv’nor knows. 
Seven stretches I done: three of ’em robbery with va¬ 
lence. I’m sure I’d give satisfaction, sir, an’ thank y’ 
kindly.” 

“This may be a rough job, Clamper,” warned Mr. 
Courtenay. 

“S’long as my guv’nor’s in it, sir,” returned Mr. 
Clamper stoutly and with tremendous conviction, “I 
don’t give a damn what it is; from two-up to murder.” 



CHAPTER XV: Mr. Clamper Encounters an old Ac¬ 
quaintance 

T HE house occupied by Mr. Barney Heggit near 
the purlieus of Tidal Basin had once been a highly 
desirable detached residence, standing back in fairly com¬ 
modious grounds, and surrounded by a high brick wall, 
that gave it, even in the hey-days of its detachment, an 
added charm of seclusion. 

It was a rambling old house of many rooms, but as 
Mr. Heggit used the greater portion of it for the purposes 
of storing the wonderful and weird assortment of old 
iron packing-cases, broken furniture, and portions of 
dismantled houses he accumulated in the course’ of his 
business as a marine store-dealer, and boarded up 
the windows of apartments so used, it wore in con¬ 
sequence a disconsolate, not to say sinister, air of di¬ 
lapidation. 

The yard had once been a very fair specimen of a 
well-shrubbed garden. It was now, owing to the busi¬ 
ness interests before-mentioned, a wilderness of crocked- 
up vehicles, stacks of timber, mounds of broken-up 
bricks and mortar, all mute evidence of the catholicity 
of Mr. Heggit’s purchases. There were also several 
dog-kennels of various primitive design scattered in most 
unexpected spots: kennels, the vicinity of which was de¬ 
cidedly unwholesome when, night having fallen, the 
double gates were closed and padlocked and Mr. Heggit 
ceased from the labours of the day. 

In the kitchen of this transformed residence that 

worthy gentleman sat in his shirt-sleeves; supported upon 

160 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


161 


his right by the wife of his bosom. They listened in¬ 
tently, with occasional nods of comprehension or ac¬ 
quiescence, to a rapid-fire conversation being shot off at 
them across the table by Mr. Joseph Clamper. 

Mr. Heggit toyed caressingly with two brand-new 
Bank of England notes for five pounds each, which he 
drew through his stumpy, broken-nailed fingers; while 
in a jug upon the table, between the parties, reposed what 
was left of a quart of beer. 

Mr. Clamper finished: “Now then,” he demanded 
sharply, “wot abart it?” 

Mr. Heggit, a huge man with a rambling face, four 
chins, and a neck of the size of an ordinary female’s 
waist, drew a deep breath, and grunted. 

“So far as wot the premises is concerned,” he began 
stertoriously, “I’ll say as I don’t think as wot a more 
properer place could be found. In fact, I’m certain there 
ain't/' He rose, crossed to the windows and gave the 
iron bars a mighty thump. “Not a budge!” he exclaimed 
proudly. “The room wot’s in my mind for the job, is 
fitted the same. By puttin’ one o’ my dorgs t’doss on 
the landin’ outside the door—t’ say nothink of a ’asp, 
staple, an’ padlock on it—sich a place,” he continued 
assertively, “is wot I calls impregerable.” 

Mr. Heggit ponderously re-seated himself and divided 
out what was left of the beer with scrupulous fairness 
between himself and Mr. Clamper. Mrs, Heggit ex¬ 
amined her glass closely, with a martyred sniff, but passed 
no comment. 

“I know your boss,” resumed Mr. Heggit, addressing 
himself to Clamper with judicial deliberation, “and wot’s 
good enough for a genelman the likes of ’im is good 
enough for Barney ’Eggit. As to the money side of it 
—this ’ere tenner talks all langwidges. I gets another of 
these for every week as my premises is used?” 


162 


THE BIG HEART 


“Right,” corroborated Mr. Clamper, “and the job has 
to be done proper. Every attention—exceptin’ they 
don’t do a bunk.” 

“If they do,” asserverated Mr. Heggit solemnly, “they’d 
get out o’ Dartmoor.” 

“Tonight is it?” inquired Mrs. Heggit, with a truly 
feminine determination to get her oar in somewhere. 

Mr. Heggit surveyed her severely. 

“I must know, to get the room ready,” explained the 
lady with some alacrity. “Hunless —hunless you’re 
agoin’ to do it yerself,” she added sarcastically. 

“Which I ain’t,” responded Mr. Heggit shortly; “so 
you can get an’ set abart it; or hotherwise y’may find 
me a-settin’ abart you. ’Op it!” 

Mr. Heggit winked with great good-humour at Mr. 
Clamper, who grinned appreciatively. 

Mrs. Heggit rose, muttering, and departed through the 
door about her business. 

“An' see as you does it dossy!” roared her better half 
after her. He winked at his companion and reverted to 
the business in hand. 

“Tonight?” he whispered hoarsely. 

“Nearer mornin’,” adjudged Mr. Clamper, after a mo¬ 
ment’s thought. 

“Makes no diffirence t’me,” assured Mr. Heggit 
equably. “I shall be up an’ waitin’. Abart them other 
things,” he continued, rising and leading the way to a 
room upon the first floor. 

He rummaged about in a gloom so deep that Mr. Clam¬ 
per could distinguish nothing but vast and looming shad¬ 
ows, and presently produced several short lengths of soft 
and flexible white cotton rope. 

“Nah this ’ere little lot,” said Mr. Heggit in his most 
cajoling salesman-like manner, “is just your barrer. 
You couldn’t get nothink more suitable if you was to go 



AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


163 


dahn on your knees for ’em in the ’Aymarket. That 
soft and pliarable—” 

“How much?” demanded Mr. Clamper shortly. 

“Two ’ogg,” snapped Mr. Heggit; and the bargain 
was struck. 

“And this ’ere,” whispered Mr. Heggit mysteriously, 
giving a furtive eye to the door, then diving into an inky 
mass and emerging with what appeared to be a soft 
canvas nose-bag, “this ’ere’ll come in very ’andy, and I’ll 
make y’ a present of it. If they starts a squealin’,” he 
continued confidentially, “there’s on’y two things to do 
Git their ’ead in a bag, or give ’em a lift under the ear- 
’ole.” 

“ ’Bout daylight,” whispered Mr. Clamper, slipping 
quietly away into the dog-infested yard. 

“I shall ’ave everythink ready,” assured Mr. Heggit 
warmly, “and safe as ’ouses.” 

In less than three-quarters of an hour from the con¬ 
clusion of this interview, Mr. Clamper was reporting to 
Mr. Patrick Courtenay upon the results of his activities— 
results entirely to Mr. Courtenay’s satisfaction. 

Leaving Mr. Clamper with instructions to get into the 
oldest clothes he possessed, Patrick, changing into an old 
and much-worn suit of tweeds, went out to pay a call. 

His visit was to a dentist of his acquaintance near 
Shaftesbury Avenue: whom Mr. Courtenay knew to be 
at the time in a condition of woeful, if temporary, pecu- 
niary embarrassment. 

That evening, while Patrick was careering along be¬ 
hind a madman who claimed ninety-six in the hour on 
the Brooklands track, and was endeavouring to beat that 
figure on the Wiltshire road, his dental friend was to be 
seen abroad at various Bohemian resorts he frequented. 
Plis condition of penury had been considerable allev¬ 
iated. 


164 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. Ferriby so far succeeded in his reckless efforts that 
the sun was still high in the heavens when the big car, 
with much hooting and heralding of arrival, ran steadily 
through the narrow village street and drew, up at the 
Racedene Arms. There had not been any untoward mis¬ 
haps, save that a gentleman in blue, personally conducting 
a police-trap outside Thatcham, had miraculously escaped 
with his life, and a tyre had blown out near Froxfield; 
otherwise—well, there they were; as Mr. Ferriby cheer¬ 
fully pointed out. 

Outside the Arms, Mr. Paddy spotted a “Triumph” 
standing on the back stand, and Mr. Rattray near by, con¬ 
versing with a gentleman who resembled a large-sized edi¬ 
tion of the late King Edward. Mr. Courtenay, with a 
courteous nod, passed into the little heavily-beamed bar, 
followed by his dusty henchmen. He ordered liquid re¬ 
freshment, and in a very audible voice inquired the way 
to some place of which no one there had the faintest idea 
of the bearings. 

Mr. Augustus Brooks, chancing leisurely into the bar, 
proffered the loan of a road-map he possessed, and re¬ 
tired upstairs to fetch it. Mr. Courtenay thanked him 
profusely, and found a seat in an adjacent sitting-room, 
to wait; Mr. Ferriby accompanying him. Mr. Clamper, 
oppressed by the mugginess of the evening, strolled to 
the door; a pint of beer in one hand, his cap in the other. 
He found himself gazing into the orbs of the stout, florid 
gentleman with the pointed beard, who returned his 
scrutiny steadily. By the expression upon the face of 
the florid gentleman he was struggling with his memory. 
Mr. Clamper, a sudden extremely unpleasant twinge at 
the pit of his stomach, turned casually back and obscured 
himself in the bar, as far as possible from the vision of 
the stout gentleman. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


165 


“Blimey!” he ejaculated in a stricken whisper. “Dob¬ 
son the Split!” 

Outside, the pseudo Mr. Oakley was thoughtfully 
stroking his beard, and racking a remarkably tenacious 
memory. 

“If you’re not one of my old clients,” he mused, “I’ll 
eat my cap—flies, hooks and all.” Without making any 
attempt to observe further the object of his suspicions, 
Mr. Oakley strolled out into the road and made an ab¬ 
stracted inspection of the tyres of the motor-car. They 
had no earthly connection with what he was pondering, 
but motor tyres and their impression were a great weak¬ 
ness of his; given a dusty road, and Mr. Oakley could 
stand and tell you every make of tyre that had been over 
it for a duration of many hours. 

“You’ve come at a rare clip,” he murmured, giving an 
eye to the dust along the chassis, then strolling aimlessly 
and laying a hand upon the still warm bonnet. “A rare 
clip you’ve come.” In the most casual way possible he 
moved round and glanced at the number-plate; then, 
without warning, the name he sought came to his brain 
in a flash. 

“Got you!” breathed Mr. Oakley triumphantly. 
“Clamper! Joe Clamper!” 

Again he moved to the lee of the car, and took from 
his breast-pocket a large and well-worn pocket-book. He 
glanced along the index. 

“C.” he murmured. “C. Ah! Clamper J. 3 con¬ 
victions penal 3. 5. 3. full remissions. Joined up 1914.” 
Mr. Oakley closed his reminiscent book and put it away. 
“Good man, Joe; joined up in ’14; good man.” He 
strolled back and took his seat upon a long bench against 
the front of the Inn. “And you remember me, Joe,” 
he soliloquized; “and, what’s more, you’re watching 


166 


THE BIG HEART 


me out of the corner of the window this instant.” 

“You're not looking over-prosperous, Joseph,” he 
mused, “and you’re with a gentleman who’s wearing his 
oldest clothes and tip-top boots; driven by another young 
toff who’s just about as much a chauffeur as I am. And 
you’ve raced from London to here. I’d give a trifle 
to know just what you’re up to, Joe. I would indeed.” 

Mr. Brooks, bringing his road-map, bent over it with 
Mr. Courtenay and the chauffeur; pointing with his finger, 
and conversing in quiet, inaudible tones. 

“Brian know I’m coming?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where’s that woman?” 

“Gone back to the farm. Doesn’t believe Brian’s tale 
of Lady R. being in town. Threatens to come back to¬ 
night.” 

“Will she bring this youngster with her?” 

“I should say so; he was with her before.” 

Courtenay thought a moment. 

“What does Brian say of her?” 

“A fiend! He’s bluffed her so far. But he says she 
has evidences—proofs that will take getting over. Her 
marriage-lines, and papers of the late Racedene proving 
who she is.” 

“He’s seen them, has he?—seen them for himself?” 

Rattray nodded affirmatively. 

“He says if she’s the woman mentioned in the papers 
—there’s not a leg to stand upon.” 

Mr. Courtenay’s eyes narrowed. 

“If,” he answered. “We’ve got to prove she isn’t. 
What class of woman is she?” 

Mr. Rattray shrugged his shoulders. “Much like her 
brother, I should say,—your half-breed friend. She gave 
Desmond all he could do to manage her.” 

“Where is this farm?” asked Courtenay, rising. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


167 


“Three miles from here; over the hill. Why?” 

“You’ll know later. I’m going to interview this lady.” 

Rattray shrugged his shoulders. “I warn you that 
you’ll get little change out of her. Desmond is in a blue 
funk over her ladyship’s coming back tomorrow. He 
swears this woman means showing her no mercy. She’s 
not that sort. She'll bring her to the ground with a 
crash.” 

“Has the hoy—young Eric—seen her?” 

“He’s seen her—yes; they were fishing together near 
the house, Brian, he and the man you saw me talking to 
outside. Brian spotted this Mrs. Lomax and her half- 
caste brat sailing up the drive with all the assurance in 
the world. The youngster asked about her; but Des¬ 
mond shuffled him off with Oakley, out of the way.” 

Paddy jerked his head towards the exterior of the 
Inn. “Is that the man you mentioned in your letter— 
the retired tradesman?” 

“Oakley?—yes, that’s the man. Very decent old sort.” 

“He and the boy have got very pally, I think ye said? 
D’ye think now that he’d notice anything strange—about 
this woman?” 

Mr. Rattray laughed. “The last man in the world.'’ 

A shadow fell across the window; Courtenay looked up 
quietly. The stout gentleman passed, glancing in. 

“Where can I have five minutes with you?” Courte¬ 
nay whispered. 

“A mile up the road on the right. There’s an old 
bridge there; pull in and wait.” 

“Good,” whispered Paddy; then thanked him with 
great heartiness for the loan of his map and his courteous 
information. 

Mr. Clamper sprang into the seat beside the chauffeur 
with considerable alacrity; a close observer might have 
noticed a strange furtiveness in the way he watched 



168 


THE BIG HEART 


the stout gentleman near the door. Mr. Augustus Brooks 
strolled casually out, and raising the stand of his cycle, 
stood watching them depart. 

“Good day t’ye, and manny thanks,” called Patrick 
effusively. 

“You're entirely welcome,” responded Mr. Brooks 
carelessly. “Don’t forget to keep to your right.” 

For a moment Mr. Oakley looked up as the car moved 
away. Clamper thankfully noted that he did not glance 
in his direction, but gave Mr. Courtenay one good steady 
look. 

“Where is it they’re asking for?" he inquired of Mr. 
Brooks casually. 

“Oh—er—a little place near Avebury,” answered Mr. 
Brooks, examining his engine. “Going on down into 
Dorset then.” 

“Are they?” observed Mr. Oakley quietly. “Well, 
Dorset is a very pleasant place at this time of the year. 
Going for a run?” he asked, with a glance at Mr. Brooks’ 
“Triumph.” 

“Oh, just for half-an-hour or so,” replied that gentle¬ 
man. 

They were waiting at the bridge when he came up— 
three men upon whose countenances was writ large a deep 
perplexity. Even Mr. Ferriby appeared languidly sub¬ 
dued. 

“Do you know who that friend of yours is?” demanded 
Paddy abruptly. “That Oakley man?” 

“Know?” answered Rattray. “’Course I do. What 
is there to know?” 

“Ask Clamper,” said Paddy tersely. 

Mr. Clamper, extremely agitated, stepped forward and 
gave him startling testimony. 

“That’s no Mr. Oakley, sir,” he exclaimed. “That’s 
Detective-Inspector Dobson from The Yard.” 




AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


169 


Rattray stared at him* in amazement: “How do you 
know?’’ he demanded. 

“Know!'’ answered Clamper, almost indignantly. 
“ ’E’s 'ad me twice. Lummel I oughter!” 

“Does it make all that difference?’’ asked Rattray wor¬ 
riedly. 

“Clamper thinks this Dobson’s spotted him. If so, 
he’s bound to wonder. I must get back past there before 
long. Isn’t there anyhow you can get him inside, or out 
of the way? He mustn’t see us on the way back.’’ 

“I’ll go back and play billiards with him—there’s an 
awful old* table at the back of the place.” 

Courtenay clapped him on the shoulder, pushing him 
towards the road. “Off you go—quick!” he ordered. 
“Wheel ye’re jigger back; if ye meet him on the road, turn 
him. Quick, and let us know his every movement to¬ 
morrow. Is there a place that we can plant the car near 
this farm? There’ll be a moon up before long.” 

Rattray considered: “Yes, a spinney a couple of hun¬ 
dred yards down the lane; and a big barn on the other 
side of it.” 

“Good,” responded Mr. Courtenay, with more cheer¬ 
fulness. “That’s something towards it, annyhow. In 
ye get, you two,” he ordered; “and you, Rats, watch that 
infernal policeman. And”—he raised a hand impres¬ 
sively, “for the love of Mike don’t be pumped, like the 
blind ass ye are !” 

“Oh, go to blazes!” snapped Mr. Rattray irritably, 
and ran his machine out into the road. 

Crossing the farmyard, a deep-mouthed dog barked 
loudly from some black shadow. Paddy stood waiting, 
but heard the clank of the chain through the vicious 
bark, and went on. 

A servant answered his knock—a drab-looking, half- 
awake slattern, whom Mr. Courtenay addressed with the 



170 


THE BIG HEART 


most punctilious politeness. He beamed upon her, hat 
in hand. 

“Pm calling upon Mrs. Lomax,” he said. “ 'Tis most 
important. I’m sorry to trouble ye.” 

The slatternly lady stared at him vacantly for a mo¬ 
ment; then opened the door widely. “Come in,” she 
said grumblingly. 

In a second Mr. Courtenay was in the dimly-lit hall, 
and had the door closed behind him. 

“Meredith,” he murmured grimly, “we’re in.” 

The staring-eyed one threw open a door upon his right 
without troubling about the formality of knocking. 

“Some one t’ see yer,” she mumbled; and departed with¬ 
out further word or look. In a trice Mr. Courtenay 
was in the room and had the second door closed at his 
back. So far—so good. 

He found himself facing a tall, magnificently-propor¬ 
tioned woman, with a skin the colour of dusky tinged 
olive, and raven hair. Her eyes which reminded him 
strongly of Howarth’s, were sloe-black, and had the same 
cruel, leering light. They stared back into his with a 
truculent mockery that gave complete index to the char¬ 
acter of the woman. She would not be easily beaten. 
Courtenay did not remember having ever seen a hand- 
somer-looking woman—or a wickeder. 

On the floor, upon a rug, squatted a small red-skinned 
boy, who grinned wickedly and insolently at him. In 
him also the type and expression of the genial Howarth 
was singularly reproduced, but upon a smaller and more 
concentrated form. 

Her voice, when she spoke, had a strange, insolent 
drawl, and underlying it a gutteral tone the like of which 
Patrick had not encountered before—her Red Indian an¬ 
cestry, he supposed. 

“Say, you,” she drawled, “you’ve got some funny 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


171 


manners in this country. Ain’t it usual to be asked be¬ 
fore you sail into a person’s apartment?” 

“It is,” Patrick assured her sweetly; “and I thought 
I had been; but in any case, my business is so urgent 
that I should have been persistent. Your name is Mrs. 
Lomax?” 

“For the present,” she answered laconically, “that’ll 
do as well as any other.” 

“Quite so, quite so,” breathed Patrick pleasantly. 

“You called today upon the Countess of Racedene?” 
he proceeded. 

“Wrong,” said Mrs, Lomax tersely. 

“I think not,” smiled Patrick. “Really, you know, I 
think not.” 

“I don’t know that it cuts much ice what you think,” 
remarked the lady lazily. “Anyhow, I guess you’re 
wrong. I called on the woman who calls herself the 
Countess of Racedene.” 

“Ah, yes,” murmured Patrick vaguely. “Of course, 
of course.” 

“Well, she didn’t see me. Wasn’t to home. Well,” 
—she seated herself and drew from a mat case a cigar¬ 
ette, which she lit and inhaled deeply— “I can wait as 
long as she can, I reckon.” 

Mr. Courtenay beamed. 

“Ah now, there ye are!” he said, waving his hand. 
“Lady Racedene was away, and has just got back. She 
will see you at once.” 

Mrs. Lomax eyed him contemptuously. 

“You can run back and tell her she can wait my time 
now,” she said. “Tomorrow will do.” 

“My dear lady,” answered Patrick quickly, “that’s 
where ye’re entirely wrong. Tomorrow will not do. 
Lady Racedene goes back to Town again the first thing 
in the morning.” 


172 


THE BIG HEART 


The dark-skinned woman threw her cigarette into the 
grate with a vicious gesture. 

‘‘Oh, does she!” she snarled. “Not if I know it, she 
doesn’t.” 

Mr. Courtenay shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. 

“I don’t quite see,” he murmured apologetically, “just 
how you propose to prevent her. With a claim such as 
you’ve made, she naturally wants to consult with her legal 
advisers—and—er—and all that.” 

“I’ve got my proofs,” snapped the woman fiercely. 
“She can’t get over those.” 

Patrick bowed. 

“I’ve not seen them, myself,” lie said slowly, “but 
the principal thing about proofs”—he paused a moment 
to give point to his utterance—“is that they have to be 
proved.” 

“They’ll easily be that,” snapped Mrs. Lomax. 

“Proofs,” continued Mr. Courtenay, “have been fraud¬ 
ulently rigged up before today—er—in this country. 
P’raps not in yours,” he added hastily. “And so—Lady 
Racedene will want the advice of her lawyers. They’re 
very competent people,” he commented carelessly, “and 
they’ll know what to do.” 

The dark woman eyed him thoughtfully a moment; 
then laughed. 

“She’ll fight, then?” she snapped suddenly. 

Patrick stared at her in palpable surprise. 

“Fight?” he echoed. “Did you expect her to take 
your word for it, and walk out? There’s the boy, you’ll 
not forget; his trustees are pretty powerful people. 
They’ll not give up without a fight.” 

“It’s between me and the woman,” she asserted trucu¬ 
lently. 

“ ’Tis the boy’s inheritance,” reminded Mr. Courtenay; 
“not the mother’s.” 




AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


173 


Mrs. Lomax pointed to the swarthy-skinned imp who 
had never shifted his beady eyes from Mr. Courtenay. 

“She’ll fight to keep him from going where her kid 
is,” she sneered. 

“Naturally,” returned Mr. Courtenay calmly. 
“Wouldn’t you?” 

“What about herself and her own name?” she de¬ 
manded. “Will she stand for that being dragged through 
the mud?” 

“It won’t be,” assured Patrick quietly. 

He rose: there was a nonchalance about his bearing 
that he knew was not without its effect upon the woman 
watching him. 

“I am to tell Lady Racedene, then,” he asked smil¬ 
ingly, “that you will not see her?” 

“I’ll see her tomorrow,” repeated the woman stub¬ 
bornly. 

“My dear good lady,” said Patrick firmly, “after to¬ 
night the only people you will see will be her lawyers. 
Those, and, perhaps the police.” 

“The police?” echoed the woman, rising. “What have 
they got to do with a case like this?” 

“They may be necessary,” replied Patrick sweetly, “to 
pursue inquiries upon the other side.” 

“Who with?” she questioned quickly. 

“The authorities,” he replied quietly; “the Authorities 
of Tombstone, Arizona—and the Wyoming Territory.” 

There was but the faintest flicker of an eyelid from 
the woman when Mr. Courtenay fired his parthian shot; 
inwardly he admired her iron nerve. 

“What have they got to do with this Claverings place 
and the Racedenes?” she asked slowly. 

“That,” responded Mr. Courtenay, with a pleasant 
smile, “we have to find out.” 

There was a silence of a moment’s duration, in which 


174 


THE BIG HEART 


Mrs. Lomax appeared to be cogitating keenly. Patrick 
glanced at his watch anxiously. 

After a pause, the woman lifted her head. “I’ll see 
to her,” she declared suddenly. 

“Get your things,” she ordered the boy curtly. She 
pulled a tailor-made coat roughly on, and put on her 
hat. When she declared herself as ready he led the way 
from the room and from the house. In the lane, its 
darkness now broken up with vivid patches of brilliant 
moonlight, he explained that the car was at a little dis¬ 
tance, owing to the roughness of the road. She made 
no response, but strode on with a free, easy stride that 
covered the ground rapidly. Her face, he could ob¬ 
serve in the moonlight, was cast in thought. 

“Aha!” thought Mr. Patrick. “I’ve got you guessing, 
my lass.” 

At the car, which had been turned in readiness, Mr. 
Courtenay opened the door and stood politely aside for 
her to enter. 

It was very dark in the car, for which Mr. Courtenay 
apologized—a wire had fused. Mrs. Lomax made no 
reply, but lifted her offspring into the car and followed 
him. Mr. Patrick stepped in and closed the door care¬ 
fully. The car whirred silently along the lane. For a 
moment Mr. Courtenay sat breathlessly still; then, taking 
something from his pocket, hurled himself upon the form 
of the lady from Wyoming as gently as the necessities of 
the case would permit. In the next second he had 
cast aside his restraint: it would have been much 
safer to have hurled oneself gently upon an infuriated 
tigress. 

A pungent acrid odour filled the inside of the car be¬ 
fore the melee was over, and two silent and rug-covered 
figures lay still upon the back seat of the limousine. 
Some white ends dangling announced the fact that the 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 175 

cotton ropes of Mr. Heggit were proving their sterling 
value. 

“Open that window, for God's sake!” gasped Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay faintly. “Phew!” 

“Talk about a ’andful!” commented Mr. Clamper, 
breathing hard. “Strong as a ox.” 

Patrick, taking long deep breaths of the revivifying 
night air, hung from the window and apostrophised his 
chauffeur. 

“As soon as we’re on the main road, let her rip!” he 
ordered. 

“What’s that bally awful smell?” howled back Mr. 
Ferriby disgustedly. 

“Ether, you blithering ass,” roared Mr. Courtenay. 
“Ether.” 

Mr. Oakley, engaged upon the sixth hundred of bil¬ 
liards upon the clattering old high-cushioned table at 
the Inn, when in the act of striking at a virtually im¬ 
possible red hazard, paused suddenly, and stood erect, 
listening. 

From out of the night came the shrill hum of the ex¬ 
haust of a big car travelling at terrific speed. 

Mr. Brooks eyed his partner askance: he, too, heard 
the passing car—had been listening for it some time. 

“Hear anything?” he inquired with the utmost sang¬ 
froid—a state of mind he was very far from feeling. 
Since the eye-opener as to his identity Mr. Brooks had 
considered the equable Mr. Oakley from a totally differ¬ 
ent and respectful view-point. The sound died away in 
the night. 

“Our friends,” announced Mr. Oakley, “have turned 
back. Not gone to that little place near Avebury. De¬ 
cided upon London instead of Dorset, after all.” 

“I didn’t think it was the same car,” returned Mr. 
Brooks, chalking up busily. 


176 


THE BIG HEART 


“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mr. Oakley, giving his 
attention again to the game. 

Later, he strolled forth to enjoy his last pipe for the 
evening. For some minutes Mr. Oakley stood studying 
the tyre impressions of the big car where it had run in, 
and started out again; then strolled quietly out into the 
centre of the road and scanned it furtively. At length 
he came to a full stop, and stood nodding his head 
slowly. 

“Ah,” he mused, “I thought so. From London in a 
hurry—Joe Clamper—call here—Mr. Brooks—is he in 
it, I wonder? Then a little place near Avebury—turn 
tail, and back to London in a hurry. Joe Clamper, I 
must have an eye kept on you; which, joining up in T4, 
I don’t like having to do.” 


'CHAPTER XVI: Mr. Dargan Has a busy Evening. 


M R. “BULL” DARGAN—late of the New York 
Police and still in active co-operation with that 
body—strolled into the Monico and seated himself at a 
table. It was just nine of the clock, and the cafe was 
comfortably filled. He took a cheroot from his case; 
from which he bit one end, lit the other, and then pro¬ 
ceeded to chew steadily towards the light. 

A few minutes later, the elderly waiter approached and 
stood respectfully by his table. 

“Cafe, Luigi,” ordered Mr. Dargan. 

Luigi bowed, and in a quiet undertone made a rather 
curious response. 

“Tonight,” said Luigi. 

“Ah!” returned Mr. Dargan ruminatively. “Good.” 
Luigi departed about the business and presently re¬ 
turned, bearing that delectable beverage. Reposing in the 
saucer was a small screwed-up piece of paper, pressed 
into so tiny a circumference as to be almost invisible. 
Singularly enough, it was the first thing upon which Mr. 
Dargan’s eyes fell. 

He drew a Treasury note for one pound from his case, 
and unostentatiously passed it across to Luigi. 

Luigi bowed and gazed reflectively upon a large painted 
panel of some exuberantly-hipped females eating grapes 
au naturel which decorated the wall behind Mr. Dargan. 

“Olinto Savioli, ’Tonio Ravera, and Paolo Casagna,” he 
murmured rapidly, still gazing at the picture. “Also one 
from America I do notta know.” 

Mr. Dargan nodded, and picked up the small paper and 

177 


178 


THE BIG HEART 


one lump of sugar with the same finger and thumb. The 
sugar he dropped into his coffee; the paper he deftly 
palmed to peruse at leisure. 

A little later he casually unrolled it, glanced at it a 
moment, as though memorizing its message, then care¬ 
fully destroyed it. Its wording was very brief, but to Mr. 
Dargan highly portentous. It ran as follows: 

"Cercle d’ltalie, Greek St., Dansant. About midnight.” 

“Now I wonder,” thought Mr. Dargan, “who the 
guinea from America can be that Luigi isn’t wise to? 
And also what that bright little bunch of vultures, Savioli, 
Ravera and Casagna, are squatting on the same roost 
for?” 

Some length of time “Bull” Dargan devoted to the 
consideration of this ominous foregathering; then left 
unobtrusively. He strolled leisurely towards Windmill 
Street, and disappeared into the busy Berwick St. Market. 

Half-an-hour later he might have been observed, a 
dark shado’w in an equally dark dporway, only the glow 
of his cheroot proclaimed the fact that the shadow was 
of human origin. He was engaged in keeping a vicarious 
eye upon a window some three stories above an Italian 
warehouseman’s. 

The fitful, gluttering light of a candle appeared sud¬ 
denly in the window in which Mr. Dargan was interested. 
Instantly he began to whistle: a soft, melodious little 
Irish air. It had an immediate effect upon the person 
with the candle in the upper room; the light disappeared, 
the window opened, and some one—a female, hatted and 
ready for the street—coughed softly. Mr. Dargan ceased 
his mournful lay. 

From a doorway at the side of the shop a young lady 
emerged. She glanced along the street, then crossed 
to an opposite corner. In the light of the lamp-post she 



A BUSY EVENING 


179 


could be seen to be a young and exceedingly pretty Ital¬ 
ian girl, with a trim, tight figure, very smartly clad. Her 
profession was obvious : it was a hundred times older than 
Mr. Dargan’s, and in its day considered a thousand times 
more respectable. 

She came slowly towards the doorway, humming a gay 
little bravura air; as she passed, however, she welded into 
it some strange words, from which a keen listener 
might have evolved the singular information that there 
was a waiter named Guiseppe, and he earned his liveli¬ 
hood at Spodani’s Cafe da Napoli. 

Mr. Dargan stood perfectly still until the gay little 
Italian had turned a corner, then strolled meditatively 
away in the opposite direction. Upon his face was just 
the faintest shadow of a frown—a frown that suggested 
that in the matter of the information lyrically imparted 
to him, Mr. Dargan was undoubtedly intrigued. 

“Spodani’s,” he muttered, lapsing, in his solitary com¬ 
munion, into the language of his absent East Side. “I 
thought I’d got this lil’ old town sized up, but I never 
tumbled Spondani’s for a cross-eyed joint. Joe Dobson 
might have given me some pointers if he’d been in Town.’’ 

An extraordinary specimen of outcasthood, bearing 
two sandwich-boards, mooched flappingly across Mr. Dar¬ 
gan’s path; his boards and his soleless boots alike creak¬ 
ing with a sad, doleful groan. 

“Goin’ to be anythink t’night?” he muttered, staring 
far before him. 

“Get rid of that junk,” ordered Mr. Dargan without 
moving a muscle of his face, “and tag on.” 

The ragged one disappeared up a black alley; thirty 
seconds later, he was trudging along in the \vake of the 
American. 

Whether accident, design, or some sub-conscious pro¬ 
pulsion had turned his steps in the direction he had come, 


180 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. Dargan himself would have been at a loss to say. 
The fact remained that he found himself standing almost 
directly opposite the premises of Signor Spodani—and 
in such position that the Cafe door in the dark passage 
was clearly exposed to his view. 

And as he stood, a smart, dapper figure, with a mop 
of black curly hair, flashing eyes, and the whitest of 
gleaming teeth, slipped out of the passage and, with a 
quick glance right and left, hurried away. 

A full moment Mr. Dargan caught the face fairly; 
then he turned sharply andf studied a shop-window. 
“Hullo!” he ejaculated. “How long have you been on 
this side, ‘Frankie the Gun,’ and what the hell are you 
doin’ at Mr. Spodani’s?” 

He gave a quick pat of his foot upon the kerb; for 
one instant the ragged one was beside him, then he faded 
away into the shadows on the heels of Signor Francesco 
Poltaro. 

For a few moments Mr. Dargan stood waiting until all 
sound of quarry and tracker had died away, then slowly, 
and keeping well out of the gleam from Signor Spodani's 
door, he investigated matters at closer range. One thing 
he was very positive of, and that was that his old friend 
“Frankie the Gun” had not emerged from the lighted 
Cafe. Ergo: there was some other portion of Enrico’s 
establishment that admitted into that passage—a portion 
not open to the public gaze. 

A sudden rustle and the light tread of a stealthy foot¬ 
step struck upon his hearing, and in an instant Mr. Dar¬ 
gan became a flattened-out shadow against the dark wall. 
By him, within touching distance, brushed a tall, broad- 
shouldered figure, who stood for a second in indecision, 
then turned swiftly away. In that instant, Mr. Dargan 
had caught a glimpse of the gaunt face, high-cheek-boned 
and flat-nosed, with eyes like living coals burning from 


A BUSY EVENING 


181 


under bushy brows; sinister eyes that gleamed with a 
strange, fanatic light; the eyes of a madman. 

Mr. Dargan stood rigid as a statue for some little 
time after the gaunt-faced man had passed on into the 
night. 

“So you’re back again, Nazimov, are you?” he mut¬ 
tered. “Joe Dobson will be glad to know it. He thinks 
you are in Geneva. I must drop Joe a line.” 

It was, indeed, information that Mr. Dobson would be 
glad of. No man in Europe gave him more anxiety than 
Peter Nazimov when August Persons were visiting, *or 
Royal public occasions were toward. Dangerous man 
Peter, and hopelessly mad. 

Pie was upon the point of stealing away, well satisfied 
with his evening’s work, and looking forward with con¬ 
siderably augmented interest to the affair of the Ccrcle 
d'ltalie; when again the door of the cafe opened without 
warning, and a couple emerged on to the street. 

The man, a fair-haired, slightly-built fellow, was in 
evening dress, covered by a light overcoat, and by his 
speech and manner was one of those whom Mr. Dargan 
had learned to recognize as the sole product of the West 
End of London; and whom he christened, one and all, 
With complete impartiality, as “dudes.” The lady of the 
pair was what he would have unquestionably character¬ 
ized as “a bright bird”—in so far as her plumage went, 
she was an extremely “bright” bird indeed. She was 
very handsome, very vivacious, and from the cultured 
note in her voice Mr. Dargan decided that she was the 
real “it.” 

“Lady Golightly,” commented Mr. Dargan, with some 
amusement, “goin’ for a dash in the red-light with Egbert 
the Eyeglass Kid.” 

“We’ll never get a taxi here, old thing,” remarked the 
gentleman. 


182 


THE BIG HEART 


“Oh, A et’s walk,” suggested the bright bird. “We’re 
not going to this Cercle d'ltalie yet a while. Sure you’ve 
got the tickets this time?” 

Mr. Dargan pricked up his ears. 

“Oh, yes,” drawled the gentleman. “Got it off Spo- 
dani first pop. Had to tell him some shockin’ tosh about 
the other one.” 

“You’re pretty certain there’s going to be a bother?” 
asked the young lady. 

“Positive. So’s Bill. That’s why he pinched my bally 
ticket. If Spodani hasn’t got some bright little scheme 
in his head for putting me off the active list, I’ll eat my 
hat.” 

“You’re blame cool about it, Egbert,” thought Mr. 
Dargan, “whoever the blazes you may be. Now who and 
what the devil are you?” 

“Sure you don’t mind hoofing it?” questioned the 
bright bird elegantly. 

“Jolly glad to,” responded Mr. Carrington. “If you’d 
been sittin’ a couple of hours on a burglar’s “kit” and an 
army revolver, you’d be glad of a—a bit of a walk. Some 
of the dents’ll never come out,” he added plaintively. 

The lady laughed, and thrust an arm through his; they 
turned and moved leisurely in the direction of Shaftes¬ 
bury Avenue. Giving them a slight start, Mr. Dargan 
followed. 

“I must see a little more of you, Egbert,” he mur¬ 
mured. “That cargo you carry is certainly interesting.” 

“Whatever did you bring the burglar's “kit” for?” the 
lady was inquiring as he came again into hearing. 

“Meant busting into that bally mysterious room on the 
first landin’ if I got a chance.” 

“Oh,” answered the lady. 

“But I didn’t get the chance,” moaned Mr. Carrington. 


A BUSY EVENING 


183 


“The moment I made a break to go up and wash my 
hands, Spodani stuck to me like a leech. Most obligin’— 
would light the gas, and all that bally rot. I’ll swear 
there was some one in there—two at least—and jabbering 
in some foreign language.” 

“Now I wonder,” reflected Mr. Dargan, "if Peter Naz- 
imov and my old pal ‘Frankie the Gun’ were the two. 
They didn’t come from the Cafe , for sure ” 

“I’m certain,” went on Mr. Carrington, "that Enrico 
has got us weighed up. Has from the first night we 
blew in—after Bill had seen the gang.” 

“And who might ‘Bill’ be, I wonder?” thought Mr. 
Dargan. 

“This Cercle d’ltalie enterprise is where they reckon on 
getting me out of the way. Y’know, I don’t think you 
ought to go, Honey—honest I don’t.” 

The beauteous lady stopped—dead. So did Mr. Car¬ 
rington. Also Mr. Dargan. 

“If you think, Jimmy Carrington,” she flashed, her 
bright eyes sparkling with indignation, “that because you 
happen to be a V.C.—” 

“Cut it out, old thing,” interrupted Mr. Carrington 
wearily. 

“—that you’re the only one not afraid of a thing of this 
kind, you’re mistaken,” she continued adamantly. 

“Now look here, Honey,” Mr. Carrington recom¬ 
mended, “do not—” 

“I’ve been with you to that—that stinking hole,” went 
on Honey, taking not the slightest notice of her compan¬ 
ion’s effort to get in a word, "and eaten their beastly food, 
so that you could watch those wretched criminals—” 

"You have, Honey,” said Mr. Carrington earnestly. 
"You’ve been a brick—game as a pebble.” 

“And now the real fun is going to start,” said Honey, 



184 


THE BIG HEART 


a suspicious tremor creeping into her voice, “you want to 
swish me out! Oh, Timmy it is rotten of you—but I 
will go r 

“All right—all right,” assured Mr. Carrington hastily. 
“Don’t sob, there’s a dear thing. Only—only,” he ad¬ 
monished sternly, “if you get a bullet or a knife chucked 
at you, don’t say I didn’t try to stop you goin’.” 

“I don’t care what I get,” declared the fair Honey, “as 
long as you’re with me, Jimmy. I wish,” she sighed 
softly,—“Never mind.” 

“Right ho,” said Mr. Carrington, and the party moved 
on. 

“Now this,” commented Mr. Dargan, “is certainly the 
goods. Your name’s Jimmy Carrington, and you’re a 
V.C., and for some reason or other you’ve been watching 
a bunch of crooks at Spodani’s, and they’re hep to you. 
They’re going to hand you the packet, and you know it, 
and you’re rolling up to take the medicine like a little 
man. James, we’ve got to keep an eye on you.” 

Mr. Dargan nodded appreciatively at the unconscious 
V.C.’s back. He respected courage in whatever form he 
encountered it, from a man to a titmouse. Therefore, 
although unacquainted with him, he appreciated Mr. Car¬ 
rington V.C. highly. Also the unknown “Bill,” who was 
to be in at the fray. 

“And as for you, Honey,” soliloquized Mr. Dargan, 
“you are as full of pep as anything in skirts I’ve ever 
come across.” He pondered matters over generally a 
few moments, then came to a conclusion. 

“No,” he murmured, “it can’t be done! Sorry to put 
my large feet into your jazz and shooting-iron party, my 
children, but it cannot be done.” 

At a corner of the Avenue, Mr. Dargan caught the eye 
of a well-dressed young gentleman who was strolling with 
apparent aimlessness along the street. 


A BUSY EVENING 


185 


In a moment the gentleman was at his side and keep¬ 
ing step with him. In front Mr. Carrington and his com¬ 
panion sailed smoothly along. 

For some few minutes Mr. Dargan conferred in a low 
voice with his new-found friend, who nodded from time 
to time in complete understanding. At length he looked 
up. 

"111 cross here,” he said. “You know what to do?” 

“Oh, quite,” assured the strange gentleman. “I’ll pick 
Wallis up at the next corner. We’ll do it together.” 

“Keep him at Vine Street until daylight,” said Mr. 
Dargan, “then give him a nice cup of coffee and turn 
him loose; burglar’s kit, cannon and all. No charge, 
you’ll understand.” 

The gentleman strode on. Mr. Dargan, crossing the 
road, noted him signal to another gentleman who seemed 
imbued with the same spirit of casualness. They spoke 
together a little, then beckoning a taxi to follow, passed 
quietly on after the unconscious couple. 

At the entrance to a well-known and deservedly popu¬ 
lar dance club, Mr. Carrington, to his intense annoyance, 
found his way impeded by two gentlemanly but power¬ 
fully-built young strangers. * To his amazement, they 
drew him to one side, and politely insisted upon his im¬ 
mediately accompanying them to Vine St. Police Station. 

“But look here, you chaps,” protested the unfortunate 
suspect, “you’re makin’ some error—some awful bloomer. 
There’ll be a fearful bother over this, you know!” 

“There will be if we don’t obey orders, Mr. Carring¬ 
ton,” said the second gentleman earnestly. “We don’t 
make a specific charge.” 

“I should bally well think you don’t!” ejaculated Mr. 
Carrington. “What about?” 

The first gentleman who had spoken leant a little 
towards him, and spoke in a gently-modulated whisper. 


186 


THE BIG HEART 


“You’re carrying a kit of burglar’s tools and a loaded 
revolver, Mr. Carrington,’’ he answered quietly, “and 
you’re under arrest as a suspected person. Now will 
you come quietly, or—’’ 

The gentleman nodded towards the taxi at the kerb. 
With a mind utterly bewildered, he took his seat, and the 
vehicle rolled off, leaving Honey staring blankly after it. 

She was still in that attitude—tears of rage, mortifica¬ 
tion and fear welling from her flashing eyes, when she 
felt herself touched upon the arm, and turned to confront 
a massive, good-humoured-looking gentleman who ad¬ 
dressed her in a strong American accent. 

“I shouldn’t worry if I were you,’’ he said quietly. 
“Jimmy’ll come to no harm.” 

“Who are you?” demanded the irate Honey quickly. 

“That doesn’t matter,” responded Mr. Dargan. “I 
just wanted to say that the Cercle d’ltalie joint was more 
serious than he reckoned. Odds are if you two had got 
there, neither of you’ud ever have gotten out alive. So— 
it just had to be stopped.” 

“When shall I see him again?” 

Mr. Dargan reflected a moment. “Soon,” he answered 
vaguely. “If I were you now, I’d make tracks for 
home.” 

Honey studied him a moment attentively. 

“Who are you?” she inquired again. 

Mr. Dargan shrugged his shoulders. “I know some¬ 
thing, don’t I ?” he replied. “Well, you stand on me that 
what I know is right.” He beckoned a passing taxi: it 
pulled in, the man dropping his flag. Mr. Carrington’s 
lady-friend stepped in, but not without evident reluctance. 

“Where to?” asked Mr. Dargan. 

“Cromwell Road,” he was answered. “You haven’t 
told me yet when I shall see Jimmy?” she repeated. 

“If you ’phone Vine Street up tonight,” replied Mr. 


A BUSY EVENING 187 

Dargan, with a twitch at his firm mouth, “and invite him 
to breakfast he’ll just about be ready.” 

Mr. Dargan raised his hat, and Mr. Carrington’s in¬ 
trepid Honey rolled away from the greatest disappoint¬ 
ment of her life. 

Midnight had just rung out from some distant chime as 
Mr. Dargan turned into Dean Street. It was very still, 
and from some yellow-lit windows at the top of an alley 
he could very distinctly hear the raucous strains of a jazz 
orchestra, and the sound of many feet moving to it, more 
or less in rhythm. 

As he paused at the entrance to the alley, a dark shadow 
stirred and flitted away, disappearing into some blacker 
depth that concealed an exit. A second shadow crept 
from the turgid blackness of the wall to his elbow. 

“He’s in there,” whispered the shadow. “Him an’ 
three others are out to crack a cove. Thev stood here 
waiting, but he ain’t come yet.” 

A taxi swung round into the street and pulled up 
twenty yards lower down. Mr. Dargan slipped back into 
the shadow, and from this vantage point watched the ad¬ 
vent of the new arrival. 

He was a tall man in evening clothes, with an ugly, 
hard-bitten face that at that moment was set in a very 
grim and determined mould. 

“I wonder if you’re ‘Bill’?” thought Mr. Dargan. 
“If you are, you’re a very hefty-looking customer. “Be 
ready to take the office from me,” he whispered. 

The Honourable Bill, peering round him, came slowly 
to the end of the alley. He had a keen glance for the 
pair standing there, then moved along rather haltingly 
towards the yellow windows. 

“Oh, Bill,” remarked Mr. Dargan sharply, with a tone 
that suggested a sudden recollection of something. 

Mr. Blakeley turned quickly and retraced his steps. 


188 


THE BIG HEART 


He found the pair in deep converse, and retired again 
into the alley; there was a puzzled frown between his 
brows and he moved cautiously. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Dargan, “that’s my man, right 
enough.” He turned again to his dilapidated shadow. 
“Two whistles from me and Vine Street,” he hissed, “a 
good force—quick and lively.” 

He turned quickly into the alley, and made for a half¬ 
open door. He saw the tall man present a ticket and 
stride into the room. Covertly Mr. Dargan followed 
him. 

There was a goodly crowd there, jazzing to the strains 
of a nigger band commanded by a man who seemed half- 
coon and half-note of interrogation. The interiors of 
the two yellow windows—and similar ones opposite— 
were, he noted, bayed, and in the recesses stacks of palms 
and other greenery. In some of these were little knots 
of Italians, talking earnestly. In the lower one com¬ 
manding the door were “Frankie the Gun,” two beetle- 
browed Italians and a man in lurid checks of distinctly 
American cut. He struck a familiar note upon some 
keen facet of Mr. Dargan’s memory, though he could not, 
for the moment, place him. A heavily-built, jolly¬ 
looking man, with an unsightly thick ear. 

Mr. Dargan sheltered himself in a little clump of 
palms and watched events. Poltaro was chattering ani¬ 
matedly, with a wealth of gesture, to his circle, among 
whom, obviously endeavouring to efface himself as much 
as possible, was the man he sought. Juan Battista, alias 
Olinto Savioli, wanted badly in New York upon a charge 
of murder. Having marked his man, and also Mr. 
Frankie Poltaro, Mr. Dargan turned his attention to the 
perplexing matter of Bill. 

That gentleman was standing a little out on the floor, 


A BUSY EVENING 


189 


peering into the crowd; obviously searching for some 
person or persons he expected to be present. 

“Ha!” thought Mr. Dargan. “Looking for the gal¬ 
lant Jimmy and his little ladybird.” 

At that moment Poltaro’s eyes fell upon the Honour¬ 
able Bill, and, as good fortune had it, the equally keen 
eyes of Mr. Dargan were upon “Frankie the Gun.” He 
saw the Italian half rise, his dark eyes narrowed down 
to two burning pin-points, and his hand to the side- 
pocket of the dinner-jacket he wore. He whispered 
quickly to the man Savioli, who stealthily opened the 
window beside them. Loosening -the light truncheon he 
carried in the slip under his coat, Mr. Dargan worked his 
Way hurriedly toward the embrasure of the window. 

At that moment the Honourable Bill turned and looked 
Poltaro square in the eye. Some subconscious instinct 
gave him warning of the menace of that hand in the 
coat-pocket, and, without further ado, he made straight 
for the gunman. The coat corner came steadily round. 

“Duck, Bill,” yelled Mr. Dargan; “he’s got a gun on 
ye!” 

The Honourable Bill heard the warning in the un¬ 
known voice, swerved sharply, picked from a table a 
chianti flask and hurled it. The sharp crack of a shot 
rang out and simultaneously two piercing whistles rent 
the air. The flask took Poltaro full in the right shoulder. 
He dragged his gun with an effort to his other hand. 
Pandemonium reigned. Women shrieked, men howled 
frantic curses. 

“Jimmy!” yelled Mr. Blakeley at the top of his sten¬ 
torian lungs. 

“Not here,” answered a voice beside him, and Blake¬ 
ley in a flash recognized the burly man he had passed 
in the alley-way. Pie had a light truncheon in his hand 


190 


THE BIG HEART 


and brought it down with a crack upon the skull of a man 
who had grabbed up a bottle. 

“Get to it, Bill,” hissed Mr. Dargan. 

“Dargan!” gasped Poltaro, sighting the detective and 
gripping his gun firmly over his hip. 

The Honourable Bill noticed a swarthy Italian slip¬ 
ping a knife from his belt; he swung his great fist and 
the dago dropped like a log. 

“Good boy!” yelled Dargan. “Get to ’em. They’ll 
be here in a minute from Vine Street.” 

There was a sudden blaze so close to Blakeley that 
it scorched his face, and he heard a gasp beside him. 
Then again his fist swung, this time on Poltaro’s neck. 
The man reeled for a minute, then, like an eel, slipped 
through the window and disappeared in the darkness. 
Police whistles were sounding in the street from every 
direction. The man alongside him sagged at the knees 
and swayed. The Honourable Bill noticed the Italian 
he had first struck crawling to his knees and groping for 
his weapon. 

A second time he slogged him, and kicked the knife 
clear of his grasp. The man dropped prone. 

Some one in light clothes made a sudden spring for 
the window, catching Blakeley as he came a blow that 
sent him reeling against the wall; then he, too, dropped 
through the opening and vanished. The Honourable Bill 
recognized him as the man with the thick ear. 

The crowd had drawn back, huddled and frightened— 
the whistles and approaching shouts daunted even the 
most valiant and desperate. 

“The cuffs, Bill,” whispered Mr. Dargan, with a cu¬ 
rious chirpy little cough. He had gone very pale, 
and steadied himself weakly against Blakeley’s 
shoulder. “The cuffs—in my belt; get—’em—on that— 
guy.” 


A BUSY EVENING 


191 


“Are you hurt?” demanded the Honourable Bill anx¬ 
iously. 

“Aw hell, that!” answered Mr. Dargan. “Get the 
irons on that bird!” He pointed to the Italian who had 
drawn the knife, and who was still lying face downwards, 
breathing heavily. 

Mr. Blakeley dragged the bright steel handcuffs from 
Dargan’s belt, and snapped them upon the unconscious 
man’s wrists. 

“Juan Battista,” declared Mr. Dargan faintly, “wanted 
in N’York City—for the—murder of—two girls.” He 
sank into a chair, his head dropping upon his broad chest, 
as the crash of arriving police echoed through the dance- 
hall. 

“You’re hit badly!” gasped the Honourable Bill, look¬ 
ing round wildly. “Where’s the nearest doctor?” 

“In his bed,” uttered Mr. Dargan, with a sudden flash 
of humour. “Bill,” he said, don’t worry about—Jimmy. 
He’s all O. K.” 

“Where?” demanded the Honourable Bill anxiously. 

“In quod,” answered this amazing stranger. “Bill, 
what’s your name ?” 

Blakeley hesitated a moment. 

“Blakeley,” he answered. “The Honourable William 
Blakeley.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Dargan. “Good. Now, Bill,”' he 
continued, “there’s some damn big game on—and some 
of the—some of the finest crooks in Europe are”—he 
winced with a spasm of pain—“are in it.” 

“I know it,” answered the Honourable Bill quietly. 

Mr. Dargan nodded. A cold perspiration was bead¬ 
ing out upon his forehead and upper lip. He breathed 
heavily, and leaned back a moment in silence. 

“And— you're in it, Bill,—and Jimmy. Card,” he 
gasped faintly, “in my vest pocket. Get it.” 




192 


THE BIG HEART 


The Honourable Bill, following the feeble indication 
of the wounded man’s hand, drew from the upper pocket 
of his vest a visiting-card. 

“This?” he asked hurriedly. 

Dargan nodded, and moistened his lips with his tongue. 

“Dobson,” he whispered. “Joe—Dobson—best—man 
—England—find—that—address—send—him to me. 
Bill,” he suddenly sat up, his eyes filming, his lips white. 
“Bill—I’m going—to flop!” 

And suiting the action to the word, Mr. Dargan’s head 
fell back heavily against his chair. The jerk pulled open 
his coat; above his right breast was a clean round hole, 
from which was welling a thick crimson ooze. The 
Honourable Bill shook his head ominously. 

He glanced swiftly at the card, to stand petrified with 
amazement at the inscription: 

“Detective-Inspector Dobson 
C/o Joseph Oakley, Esq:, 

The Racedene Arms, 

Claverings, 

Wiltshire.” 



CHAPTER XVII: Mr. Levigne Uses the Spur 


66 TACOB,” said Mrs. van Tulst Schornhurst, with 

J deep portentousness, “have you noticed that John 
Hammerden has been a worried man this day or two?’’ 

They were seated in the little arbour where Mr. Cour¬ 
tenay and the fair “Penny” had communed upon the 
morning of Mr. Blakeley’s first arrival. The morning 
was very hot, and Mrs. Schornhurst panted distressingly. 

“Can’t say I have, Mad’leen,” he replied thoughtfully. 
“No, I can’t say that I have.” 

“There’s something, Jacob,” persisted Mrs. Schorn¬ 
hurst. “I’m sure of it. Look at the way these two 
gentlemen, Mr. Courtenay and the Honourable Mr. 
Blakeley, dash in and away again—at the most extraor¬ 
dinary hours. Six o’clock this morning they came, and 
by the look of Mr. Courtenay he hasn’t been in bed since 
he left here—and the Honourable Mr. Blakeley has a 
very distinct black eye. Something s wrong some¬ 
where.” 

Mr. Schornhurst stroked his chin slowly. “I don’t 
know,” he said thoughtfully. “I daresay there’s some¬ 
thing on that John’s interested in, and those two fellers 
are in it with him. I don’t ever remember seein’ two 
chaps get to a job tooth an’ nail, like they do. All John 
seems to say is, ‘Go get me,’ and they go get. I don’t 
know what it is they’re after,” concluded Mr. Schorn¬ 
hurst, “but I’ve got a hundred dollars that says they nail 
it before any other two men in Europe.” 

Mrs. Schornhurst eyed her partner suspiciously. 
“They were whispering in Mr. Hammerden’s room until 


194 


THE BIG HEART 


breakfast this morning. I heard them—the windows to 
the balcony were open. 

“Two solid hours did that whispering go on,” she 
continued with deadly persistency. “What were they 
about?” 

Mr. Schornhurst, with the faintest breath of a sigh, 
looked at his wife for a moment in silence. 

“Mad’leen,” he said in a hushed, confiding tone, 
“Mad’leen, I’ll tell you what John and those chaps were 
at, whispering in the room this morning. It’s right that 
you should be wise to it.” 

Mrs. Schornhurst breathed quickly. 

“Those fellers and John,” said Mr. Schornhurst, “were 
minding their own business; and they were probably 
whispering it because they didn’t want us to start mind¬ 
ing it for them. That’s about all.” There was a note 
of finality about the little magnate’s last sentence that 
left the wife of his bosom in no doubt as to the fact 
that it was about all. 

Again Mrs. Schornhurst, this time with a martyred ex¬ 
pression of indifference, shrugged her shoulders, and 
changed the subject. 

“Those girls have got a hot day for that place,” she 
said. 

“Twickenham,” returned Mr. Schornhurst, who in¬ 
variably laid deep accent upon the last syllable when 
mentioning any English towns the names of which ended 
in that manner. “I’ve got a notion,” went on the little 
magnate, again that quiet twinkle in his deep-set eyes, 
“that John’s daughter regretted the arrangement when 
she found the unexpected guests here. I was waiting 
for her to call it off any minute, but I suppose it would 
have looked ...” He broke off with his quiet chuckle, 
and lit a cigar. 

“Penelope,” began Mrs. Schornhurst cumbersomely, 


MR. LEVIGNE USES THE SPUR 


195 


“p’raps thought that her duty to her father’s guests 
would demand—” 

Jacob J. gazed at the end of his cigar and grinned fur¬ 
tively. 

“Sure,” he remarked succinctly. 

“And Ronny not being very set on going. ...” 

“When did she say that?” demanded Jacob J. in some 
astonishment. 

“Just before they went.” 

“What’s got her bitten?” 

Mrs. Schornhurst appeared slightly puzzled. “I think 
it must have been the heat,” she concluded. “We were 
talking together for a few moments in the hall, the Hon¬ 
ourable Mr. Blakeley, she and I, and Ronny said then 
that for two pins she’d quit, it was so hot. The Hon¬ 
ourable Mr. Blakeley said the sun was very dangerous 
in these parts; they should leave it until evening.” 

“Ah!” said Mr. Schornhurst thoughtfully. “Did he? 
And when do they go, Mad’leen? This pair of go- 
getters.” 

“I understand,” answered Mrs. Schornhurst, mani¬ 
festly disapproving of his levity, “that they leave here 
after lunch and go on to Wiltshire, to the Countess of 
Racedene’s, Mr. Blakeley’s sister.” 

“As I understood the arrangement last night,” said 
Mr. Schornhurst, “those girls schemed to get back home 
around sunset; but I see they’ve taken that Punch dog 
with them. Reckon they don’t figure on letting that 
animal—” 

“They’ve decided now,” his wife interrupted, as she 
rose and made a languid, gasping move towards the 
house, “on getting back to lunch. Penelope thought it 
better.” 

Mr. Schornhurst watched his good Mad’leen’s slow 
progress across the lawn, and smiled satirically. 



196 


THE BIG HEART 


‘Til bet she did,” he murmured. 

Some long time did Jacob J. ponder and dream over 
his Ronny, until across him fell a shadow—a shadow of 
inordinate length; and looking sharply up, he found 
himself being gazed at by the Honourable Mr. William 
Blakeley. Upon Mr. Blakeley’s face was the grim and 
fixed expression of a bull-dog about to do battle for his 
life. Mr. Schornhurst noted that his wife had reported 
correctly—one of Mr. Blakeley’s eyes showed distinct 
signs of having been in action quite recently. 

Mr. Blakeley smiled: there was a grimness about it 
foreign to his usual pleasant expression. 

Jacob J. smiled in return; but pleasantly, invitingly. 
“Well?’’ he remarked. 

“Could I have two minutes with you, sir?” inquired 
Mr. Blakeley. 

Mr. Schornhurst nodded: “Why, sure,” he answered. 
“Twenty—if you want them—and the subject interests 
me,” he added with a note of caution. 

“I think it will,” answered the Honourable Bill. “I 
hope so, anyhow.” 

He seated himself opposite Mr. Schornhurst in the 
little arbour, and drummed his fingers upon the table. 

“Shoot,” invited that gentleman perfunctorily. He 
lit a cigar and settled himself comfortably. 

“What’s your opinion of me?” demanded the Honour¬ 
able Bill with startling suddenness. 

For a moment Jacob J. stared at him; then took a long 
thoughtful draw at his cigar. 

“That all depends,” he replied slowly, “on how you 
mean. I reckon you’re a hustler and a fighter. I don’t 
allude to the black eye you’re wearing—I mean a fighter 
over other things—big things. You don’t let go easy. 
For the rest, you’re born and bred what the world calls 
a ‘gentleman.’ You’re no doubt well educated, and I 


MR. LEVIGNE USES THE SPUR 


197 


think you’re what I call a gentleman. I don’t reckon 
there’s anything crook to you—you don’t hit me that 
way.” He paused a moment and eyed his questioner 
with the faintest twitch about the corner of his mouth. 
“In the matter of looks,” he continued, “we're about on 
a mark, though in different classes. There’s some breed 
to you that I haven’t got; and the Almighty didn’t favour 
me with a straight, athletic figure, though I could have 
done with it.” 

“You don’t take me to lie a man who would lie, or 
steal, or do anything dishonourable?” demanded Mr. 
Blakeley curtly. 

“Not so you could notice it,—no,” answered Jacob J., 
wondering what the blazes variety of gold brick this 
pushful young gentleman was about to spring upon him. 

“I’ve got about eighteen hundred a year to live on,” 
went on the Honourable Bill, in the same tense, snappy 
way. “There’ll be more later, but that’s how I stand 
now.” 

Mr. Schornhurst nodded his head gravely. 

“A nice handy figure for a young man to start with,” 
he observed interestedly. “Were you thinking of ask¬ 
ing my advice? Because I can tell you right away that 
John Hammerden can give you all the straight talk your 
capital will need.” 

Mr. Blakeley shook his head slowly. 

“John Hammerden is a good fellow, and a friend; 
but he can’t give me the advice I want,” he said quietly. 

Jacob J. expressed surprise. 

“That so?” he said. “Why, then,—ask.” 

“I want to know,” said Mr. Blakeley slowly, looking 
the older man square in the eyes, “just what you think 
of my marrying your daughter.” 

For a second, and one second only, Jacob J. was caught 
short: he gaped—opened his mouth and closed it again 


198 


THE BIG HEART 


without the utterance of a syllable. This was a go-getter, 
this young fellow! He w r as, indeed, with a vengeance. 

“It’s only fair to say,” continued Mr. Blakeley rapidly, 
“that I have not spoken to Ronny—to Miss Schornhurst. 
I’ve come to you—as an honourable man—first.’’ 

Mr. Schornhurst was glad the young gentleman put 
that bit in: it gave him time to get his breath. “That,” 
he said gravely, “was polite. You English are a polite 
people. An American would have asked the girl first, 
and got her to fight half his battle.’’ 

“I propose to speak to your daughter immediately after 
lunch,’’ infornted the Honourable Bill firmly. 

“Yes. I should let her get her lunch first,” advised 
Mr. Schornhurst. “She may need it. You—er—you 
have not spoken to Ronny—to my daughter—of—of this 
sort of think at all?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Then how the—how d’ye know whether she’ll listen 
to you or not? How do you know she—she won’t be 
insulted by your proposal? I don’t want to be rude, 
and I certainly don’t want to hurt your feelings; but 
my daughter is my daughter—and—there have been ideas 
as to—to the station that she can marry into. My 
money . . .” 

“Oh, damn your money!” burst forth Mr. Blakeley. 
“It’s her I want; not your confounded money.” 

For a few seconds Jacob J. Schornhurst favoured the 
Honourable Mr. Blakeley with a complete and dispas¬ 
sionate scrutiny. 

“I heard that same remark once,” he observed slowly, 
“in a drama my wife an’ I went to when we were just 
married, and had not got what we have now. I thought 
it was the grandest sentiment I’d ever heard, and my 
wife cheered. It didn’t prevent the chap that said it 
from taking the despised stuff though. No, sir.” 



MR. LEVIGNE USES THE SPUR 


199 


The Honourable Bill leaned forward. “If your 
daughter married me, would you cut her off with the 
proverbial shilling?” 

“May be,” replied Mr. Schornhurst, again wondering 
what the devil the chap was at. 

“Give me your word of that, and I’ll marry her to¬ 
morrow,” snapped the Honourable Bill. 

“Doesn’t she have any say-so?” inquired Jacob J. with 
open eyes. 

“She’ll say ‘yes,’ ” said Mr. Blakeley. * 

“How do you know?” demanded the other. 

“I do know,” said Mr. Blakeley stubbornly. “You’ll 
see.” 

“And suppose,” demanded Jacob J., “I don’t want to 
see? You’ve asked me for my permission to pay your 
respects to my daughter. Supposing I say, and say most 
emphatically, no? That I don’t believe my daughter 
does love you; and if she does —er—arrum— I consider 
it an entirely unsuitable arrangement—an impudent sug¬ 
gestion.” 

The Honourable Bill rose: his face very white. 
“What do you mean?” he demanded curtly. 

Mr. Schornhurst remarked “Pshaw!” with great dis¬ 
tinctness. 

“Do I understand you, Mr. Schornhurst, to say that 
if your daughter should love me as I love her, that you 
will refuse your consent because I have not the—the 
money of the classes she now belongs to? You can have 
nothing against me. I tell you,” he went on passionately, 
“I love her and she loves me.” 

“You tell me. I hear you say it.” 

“She’ll tell you before the day is out,” said the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill. “And when she does, I’ll marry her.” 

“Who says so?” demanded Mr. Schornhurst. 

“I do,” replied the Honourable Bill, bringing his fist 



200 


THE BIG HEART 


down upon a little rustic table with a crash; “and you 
can gather round and see me do it!” 

For a moment Jacob J. bent his brows upon this despe¬ 
rate haste-to-the-wedding fellow, with a curious expres¬ 
sion. 

“Yes,” he returned quietly, “I expect IT1 be round in 
the group some place or other.” 

“If I’m wrong,” went on Mr. Blakeley; “if she doesn’t 
love me, I’ll—I’ll be the first to say so, and—and go 
away.” There was a strange little note in his pleasant 
voice that made the little Money King glance at him 
quickly. “I shall always love her. It’s for her decision 
—I can’t say more.” 

Mr. Schornhurst sat very still—his eyes were fixed 
upon the ugly face towering above him; and again that 
curious expression was in their sunken depths. 

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “you can’t. You’re an 
amazing young man. I don’t just remember to have 
bumped across anything like you before. I’ve been try¬ 
ing to pull you out a bit. I reckon,” he concluded, “we’ll 
leave it to Ronny to say what will happen.” 

He offered a friendly hand, and smiled upon the hu¬ 
man whirlwind confronting him. There was a lot about 
the Honourable Bill he liked—that note in his voice rang 
vibrant with truth and love of his little girl—and—well, 
if Ronny could put up with that much ugliness for life, 
he reckened he and Mad’leen would have to. 

The Honourable Bill gripped the proffered hand. 
“You’ll not find anything to regret in me,” he said simply. 

Jacob J. nodded quickly; and released his hand without 
undue delay—his future prospective son-in-law’s grip 
was a painful revelation. 

“There’s one thing,” he observed, “if Ronny wants 
you—and says ‘yes,’—I’d get into a sort of ancestral 



MR. LEVIGNE USES THE SPUR 


201 


armour before you confer with her mother. She—she’s 
had her mind running on a duke for her daughter. . . .” 

'Til do my best,” said the Honourable Bill simply, 
“to convince her that I’ll make Ronny happy.” 

“You'll have a job,” commented Mr. Schornhurst 
dubiously. “But get to it, boy, get to it. I wouldn’t 
have it to do for—” 

Taking a whimsical glance at the face of the Honour- 
able Bill, the words froze upon Jacob J.’s mouth; for 
the tall man was staring at some bedraggled, blood-soaked 
object tottering, swaying and stumbling blindly up the 
drive, and in his eyes was an expression of lTorror and 
alarm. 

It was Old Punch. The dog, giving heavy, wheezing 
pants, was blundering weakly on; obviously maintaining 
his feet by virtue of his inborn deathless courage. He 
was a pitiable object: a great gash across his skull, from 
which a crimson stream still oozed, dripping across his 
one eye and blinding him. The white of his coat was 
dyed a dulUred, caked dry by the heat and the dust of 
the road. He staggered on till by a little ornamental 
stream he dropped, gulping his fill greedily; then, pant¬ 
ing heavily, struggled to his feet and with tottering steps 
crawled gamely on toward the house. One hind leg 
dragged limply behind him—broken. 

With a shout the Honourable Bill rushed towards him, 
followed by the little financier, whose face was livid 
to the lips. Old Punch heard the cry, turned blindly 
in its direction, tottered a few steps, then fell—the in¬ 
domitable spirit willing—the torn and mangled body 
beaten. 

“Paddy!” yelled the Honourable Bill. 

Mr. Schornhurst, trembling in every limb, endeavoured 
to keep pace. 



202 


THE BIG HEART 


“Oh, my God!” he was muttering frenziedly, “Oh, my 
God! What’s happened to them? What’s happened to 
them?” 

Courtenay came like a madman across the lawn. He 
had seen Punch from the window as he struggled towards 
Blakeley. He fell upon his knees by his dog, tears of 
rage and agony streaming down his face. He huddled 
the stained body to him in a frenzy of passionate 
rage. 

“Oh, Punch!” he cried. “Who did this to ye? The 
dogs! I’ll kill them for it! Oh, the dastards!” 

Mr. Hammerden, limping from the window of his 
room, shouted for a groom to mount and ride for the 
nearest veterinary surgeon. 

Then Old Punch staggered out of Paddy’s arms, 
lurched, with a mighty effort of his quivering muscles, 
to his feet and gave three short, chuff, growling barks. 
The only time in his life he had ever given tongue. It 
was not his breed—he was no talker; but he tried to tell 
them his story. 

“He’s trying to tell us,” quavered Jacob J. “There’s 
been some terrible accident.” His hands gripped each 
other nervelessly; his terror had made a weakly old man 
of him in a moment. “Oh, Ronny!” he moaned. 
“Ronny, my little girl!” 

“Don’t,” said the Honourable Bill hoarsely, “don’t— 
until we know” He ran along the drive, disappearing 
around the house; a moment later the heavy thrum of the 
engine of his car was heard. 

“Good,” muttered Hammerden. “Good!” He, like 
Schornhurst, had taken upon him sudden age, but not 
weakness. 

Paddy carried Old Punch to the little stream and laid 
him bodily in its coolness. The dog quivered and whined 
a little as the water laved over his gaping wounds. 


MR. LEVIGNE USES THE SPUR 


203 


“Ah, now,” cried Paddy, “ ’twill strengthen ye, boy— 
I wouldn’t hurt ye. God knows I wouldn’t hurt ye.” 
And the note in his voice was as gentle and caressing as 
that of a woman to her ailing baby. 

“Jake,” said Hammerden, “you’ll stay here; in—in 
case they come while we’re away. Say nothing to any 
one. In you go—and keep your wife away.” 

The little man, in a helpless way, wandered towards 
the house; as he went, the Honourable Bill came swing¬ 
ing round in the car. 

“Oh, find her, Blakeley!” pleaded the stricken little 
man desolately. “Find my little girl. I don’t know 
what I’d do if anything—” 

“I’ll find her,” answered Blakeley huskily, gripping 
his hand. “I’ll find her—or—” He broke off, and the 
car went on. 

“Bill,” said Hammerden quietly, “quick— In the 
drawer of my study you’ll find two guns and ammuni¬ 
tion.” 

“You don’t think—!” started Blakeley in amazement. 

Paddy looked up, and spoke in the hissing whisper 
of a man mad with rage. “His leg, that hind leg, has 
been broken by a bullet!” 

A groom, a tender, steady hand with a dog as could be 
seen, was laving at a clean round hole just below Old 
Punch’s thigh. 

“That’s a bullet-hole, sir,” he whispered. “Seen too 
many out in France not to know.” 

Blakeley’s fists clenched and his eyes steeled, as he 
turned back quickly for the window of the big man’s 
study. 

“Swine!” he muttered through grinding teeth. “The 
unspeakable swine!” 

“Which way ?” questioned Hammerden, his face drawn 
with anxiety. 



204 


THE BIG HEART 


“Did no one see Punch come in at the gates?” asked 
Courtenay quickly. 

And no one had: even that help in a desperate need 
was denied to them. Which way? Right or left? No 
one knew! 

“Oh, my God!” groaned the big man, beside himself, 
“if he could only speak! If he could only tell us!” 

“There’s one way,” said Paddy quickly, “that’s if he’s 
not too far gone. Lift him with me,” he ordered the 
groom. 

Between them they bore the big dog tenderly to the 
great iron gate; the car with Hammerden and Blakeley 
following. 

In the road, they set him gently upon his feet; he stood 
there panting; the gaunt head hanging leaden from his 
great shoulders, his eyes dull and listless, gazing at his 
Great One as though asking him some question. 

“Old boy,” pleaded Paddy, kneeling in the dust by 
his side, “don’t be beat. For the love of all I care for, 
don't be beat! Find her, Punch— Oh, big heart, show 
me how to find my little girl!” 

For answer the big dog licked lovingly at the hand 
that passed across his battered face, turned feebly, and 
staggered three or four steps to the right, then fell. 

With one last touch of the bloody head lying so still 
in the dust. Courtenay, the tears again welling helplessly 
from his eyes, sprang into the car. The groom dropped 
in the road beside the dog, working with skilled hands at 
him. 

“Save him for me!” screamed Courtenay in anguish, as 
the car moved past; “keep him alive, and ye can have 
everything I have in the wide world—an’ welcome.” 

The groom glanced up. “Can’t I be fond of a dog 
too?” he replied shortly. 


MR. LEVIGNE USES THE SPUR 


205 


“God bless ye!” said Patrick fervently; and the car 
swept on in a whirl of dust. 

Three miles away, in a quiet lane, they found the 
yellow two-seater—upside down in a ditch; but of those 
they sought, no trace. All around were evidences of a 
bitter struggle; bloody assurance that the dog had fought 
to protect them to his last gasp. 

Jabbed roughly to the seat was a brief, pencilled scrawl 
upon an envelop. It read : 

“My price is doubled. H. To be paid within a week—or—” 

There was no initial—no clue whatever to the identity 
of the writer; but every man there knew from whom the 
blow had come. 

“Come,” said Courtenay briefly; “they’ve made for 
Town. ’Tis no good our standing here. We’ll settle 
with these dogs—once and for all.” 

Upon the Tilbury Road, a big closed car raced along 
at her highest speed. Inside, well hidden from the 
chance view of prying eyes, and in a condition of utter 
helplessness, it bore a curious and singularly beautiful 
burden, which Mr. Levigne, leaning back at his ease, 
surveyed grimly. 

“I think, Mr. John Hammerden,” he murmured pleas¬ 
antly, “that again I win; and if tonight runs as smoothly 
as today, you will be finished, my rough-handed friend 
—quite finished. Til have you where I want you.” 


CHAPTER XVIII: Mr. Dobson Plunges into the 
Vortex 

D etective-inspector dobson’s friend¬ 
ship with his small lordship of Racedene was an 
unparalleled event in his life; one entirely without prece¬ 
dent. 

Mr. Dobson had never been in the way of becoming 
acquainted with children. The few children that had 
come under his ken seemed to live in a state of perpetual 
warfare with their elders (and betters) ; small imps of 
devilish ingenuity in mischief, to be bullied, cajoled, 
threatened, pushed, forcibly cleansed, and flattered, and 
rammed down other people’s throats as incomparable 
specimens of the human race juvenile. Either that, or 
they lurked bare-footed in and about gutters, and rushed 
at respectably clad people with newspapers and other 
impedimenta calculated to cause the maximum of an¬ 
noyance. Mr. Dobson, then, did not like children. 

But this Racedene lad, this chip of an old and noble 
block, was a horse of a very different colour. Here was 
a boy—and a very small one at that—who seemed imbued 
with the idea of respect for the feelings of older persons, 
whatever their station. There was a deference to the 
opinion of others that did not in any way detract from 
a frank and independent expression of his own. 

These opinions, as Mr. Dobson (or Mr. Oakley) 
had learned after several solemn conferences with his 
small friend—seated by the side of the little stream— 
were deep and vast; and ranged over a variety of subjects 

positively amazing to the worthy detective. 

206 


INTO THE VORTEX 


207 


A discussion, opening from a somewhat conservative 
utterance of Mr. Oakley’s which touched upon the great¬ 
ness of the sphere into which his young friend had found 
himself born, brought forth opinions which left him 
gasping. 

“You see,” expounded the young Racedene heir, “it 
isn’t what you have that makes you a gentleman; it’s 
what you are. Now, f’r instance, Mr. Desmond’s a gen¬ 
tleman, but he’s good enough to come and teach me. 
Now if I’m ever as good a gentleman as he is I’ll be 
lucky, won’t I ?” 

Mr. Dobson, viewing the matter from this standpoint 
and being already a sterling admirer of the rough-hewn 
Irishman, admitted that such would be a matter for con¬ 
gratulation. 

“Mr. Desmond,” continued the small host gravely, 
“would be just as much a gentleman if he were a—a 
labourer. He couldn’t help it, you see; any more than 
you can help being one. It all depends upon whether 
you’ve the feeling of one; which, of course, you 
have.” 

“There’s a lot in that, of course,” admitted Mr. Oak¬ 
ley, considerably warming to the idea when presented 
in this light. 

“And a man can be the highest in the land and be a 
blackguard, can’t he?” went on this democratic peer. 

Mr. Oakley, somewhat startled, pondered this. 

“I don’t know,” he replied dubiously. “I shouldn’t 
like to go as far as that.” 

“What about King John?” demanded his companion. 
“And Richard Crookback?” 

“Oh, yes, there’s them, of course,” murmured Mr. 
Dobson ungrammatically. “Very poor specimens they 
were.” He had about as much notion of the delin¬ 
quencies of those monarchs as had the man in the moon: 


208 


THE BIG HEART 


the records and past performances of the late Mr. Chas. 
Peace were more in his line. 

He had been presented with a portrait of the young 
nobleman, somewhat dog-eared and indeed, as the donor 
apologetically explained, dog-chewed; a setter pup had 
given it some attention as an article of diet; but it was 
the best he had at the moment. It was, however, he 
pointed out, embellished by a particularly noteworthy 
thing in frames; carved out of corks, so he was informed, 
by the giver’s Uncle Bill, whilst keeping his lonely vigil 
in France. 

It was not particularly true as to square, and the 
photograph had evidently been got into it by determined 
effort, but Mr. Dobson prized the gift highly, and any 
little defects that might have been discovered by the 
hypercritical were completely overshadowed by the man¬ 
ner of its presentation, and the romantic interest attach¬ 
ing to it. The small face smiled sunnily at Mr. Oakley 
from his dressing-table in the little dormer bedroom as 
that gentleman disrobed for the night. 

‘Tn all my born days,” observed Mr. Oakley slowly, 
addressing himself to the cork-framed photograph, “l 
never came across a young chap that I could take to as 
I have you, my friend; and I don’t suppose I’m likely to 
come across another. You’re my idea of what a boy 
should be; and when you’re grown up, I’ll bet you’re 
my idea of a man.” 

With which entirely complimentary analysis of the 
character of his young friend, Mr. Dobson blew out the 
candle and turned into bed. 

He did not, however, drop off into slumber with his 
usual rapidity; many thoughts, curious and contentious, 
laid siege to his analytic brain, hauntingly insistent of 
solution. 

The boy: an entirely satisfactory mental prospect this; 


INTO THE VORTEX 


209 


Mr. Dobson turned his head towards the faintly visible 
picture, and smiled pleasantly. He was getting very 
fond of that boy, ridiculously so; had any one told him a 
week ago such a thing was possible, he would have 
laughed them to scorn. They were going together upon 
the morrow on a trouting excursion to a distant part of 
the estate. A day of it—and find their food as best 
they could at a neighbouring farm. Mr. Desmond had 
arranged this picnic affair at a moment’s notice, and a 
day more to his liking could scarcely have been projected. 

This Clamper business now—that was a funny job. 
What the dickens was the motive behind that little jaunt? 
And what was “R. R.,” or Augustus Brooks, or whatever 
his name was,—what was he to do with it—if anything? 
He had been most certainly listening for that car’s re¬ 
turn—assuredly so. And Joe Clamper! Confound 
Joe! what was his business there? In vulgar parlance, 
Joe Clamper stuck in Mr. Dobson’s gizzard—and stuck 
hard. 

Any other strangers mysterious enough in their move¬ 
ments to need attention from him while in this explora¬ 
tive, sleepless mood? Mr. Dobson could recall none. 
A lady had been staying somewhere about who had 
called at “Claverings”—a foreign-looking lady with a 
little boy, but there was nothing secretive, nothing fur¬ 
tive about her; very much the reverse. 

Mr. Dobson dozed lightly: for how long he could not 
tell, but certainly for no length of time, when he was 
fully awakened by the weird hoot of an owl from the 
Racedene parklands calling solemnly to its goggle-eyed 
mate. Mr. Dobson took a peculiar interest in these noc¬ 
turnal creatures, perhaps his association with humans of 
the same trend of habit inclined him to it, and for some 
time he lay listening to their unmellifluous music. Once 
it sounded so close that Mr. Dobson rose, and in his 


210 


THE BIG HEART 


pyjamas, seated himself at the window, the better to 
observe the habits of these strange creatures of the wild. 

But nothing was there to be seen; and Mr. Dobson was 
on the point of retiring once more when he was checked 
by a sound that seemed totally foreign to the quiet of the 
moonlit night—a heavy car, travelling at great speed, 
and seemingly upon the London road. Mr. Dobson, at 
his window, watched it pass—a handsome blue limousine 
with a long aluminum bonnet,—the interior of the car 
being in darkness. Mr. Dobson glanced at his watch 
and crawled into bed. It was twenty past two, precisely. 
By half-past two the regular, somewhat stertorous 
breathing from his bed announced the gratifying fact 
that sleep had at last overtaken him. 

Mr. Dobson was awakened by a thunderous knocking 
upon his bedroom door. Startled, he sprang from his 
bed and proceeded to the verbal castigation of the of¬ 
fender. He found himself confronted by the Rev¬ 
erend Mr. Brian Desmond and Mr. Augustus Brooks; 
and on the face of the big Irishman was the wild glare 
of a man in desperate trouble. 

“Why!” gasped Mr. Dobson, considerably intrigued 
by these totally unexpected apparitions. “Mr. Des¬ 
mond! Come in! Come in! What is it?” 

“The boy!” uttered Desmond hoarsely, advancing into 
the room. “He’s gone!” 

“Gone!” echoed the detective blankly. “Gone 
\vhere?” 

“Kidnapped! Taken from his bed last night!” 

For a moment Mr. Dobson stood in utter and complete 
amazement. He needed no mirror to tell him that he had 
gone as pale as the two men staring hollow-eyed at him. 
In an intuitive flash there rushed to his mind the strange 
hoot of the owl, and the big limousine car that had 



INTO THE VORTEX 


211 


rushed by upon the London road at twenty minutes past 
two o’clock. 

“Tell me what there is to tell,” he said abruptly; “and 
h r st—just why you’ve come to me?” 

Rattray apologetically offered a card. 

“1 hat was through me,” he said. “In some way, that 
needn’t be gone into at the moment, I learned of your 
identity; of all people to help us in this awful business 
you seemed the most likely. You knew the boy; and 
I think are fond of him.” 

“I am,” answered Mr. Dobson quickly, “and I’ll do 
what I can; but I want the truth of the position.” He 
glanced at the card. “Ah,” he said. “ ‘R. R.’—I 
thought so. Now why this?” 

Mr. Rattray flushed and appeared considerably embar¬ 
rassed. Mr. Dobson noted that he anxiously sought the 
eye of the Reverend Mr. Desmond, as though caught in 
some predicament. 

“The fact is, Mr. Dobson,” the big Irishman began 
slowly, “that there’s trouble been anticipated here for 
some little time. Captain Rattray was sent down by 
her ladyship’s brother, the Honourable Mr. Blakeley, 
to—to stand guard, as you might put it.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Dobson. “Is that all you’re able to 
tell me?” 

“It’s all,” assured Mr. Desmond earnestly, “that in 
honour I can. Blakeley will tell you everything, I don’t 
doubt; but Rattray and myself are bound to silence.” 

Mr. Dobson, dressing rapidly, kept his eyes fixed upon 
the small face in the cork frame; it seemed to help, to 
give clarity of vision and concentration. His two vis¬ 
itors watched him curiously. He woke out of his brown 
study with the sudden snap of a question at the clergy¬ 
man. 


212 


THE BIG HEART 


“This menace you speak of? Did it implicate the 
boy—directly?” 

“No,” answered the big clergyman. “We never gave 
a thought in that direction. God forgive us!” 

“Then the danger, whatever it was, threatened his 
mother—Lady Racedene?” questioned Mr. Dobson 
quickly. 

“Yes. Her ladyship.” 

Mr. Dobson turned to Rattray: “Had this expected 
menace anything to do with the arrival of your friends 
in the car last night?” 

Mr. Rattray started guiltily. “It—it had,” he stated. 

“What did they come for?” demanded Mr. Dobson 
bluntly. 

“That I can’t tell you, for I don’t know really.” 

“You could make a guess, though?” 

Mr. Rattray paused for a moment before replying: 
“Yes,” he said slowly; “I could make a guess.” 

“H’m. I don’t deal in guesses,” said Mr. Dobson, 
adjusting his collar slowly. “I deal in facts” Again 
his eyes sought the frank, pleasant ones of the missing 
heir. Of a sudden he turned upon the haggard-faced 
tutor, and spat at him a series of rapid-fire questions 
which Mr. Desmond answered with nearly as great 
rapidity. 

“Did this menace come from that foreign-looking 
woman?” he demanded. 

“It—it did.” 

“Boy with her anything to do with it?” 

“In—in a way—yes.” 

“What d’ye mean in a way? He either had or he 
hadn’t. Which?” 

“Yes.” 

“Could that menace be in any way turned into chan¬ 
nels of blackmail?” 


INTO THE VORTEX 


213 


“It could,” answered Mr. Desmond. 

“What nationality was she?” snapped Mr. Dobson. 

“She was an Am-” Mr. Desmond checked him¬ 

self hurriedly. “I’m afraid I can’t answer ye that,” 
he said. “Blakeley can—and will, I’ve no doubt.” 

“Neither have I,” responded Mr. Dobson grimly. 
“But you’ve told me what I wanted to know. Where is 
the woman now?” he demanded. 

Mr. Desmond gazed at him in some bewilderment. 
“I—I suppose she’s still at—that farm where she was 
staying,” he stammered. 

Mr. Dobson swung almost savagely upon Mr. Ratt¬ 
ray. “Is she?” he demanded. 

“No—I—so far as I know—yes,” gasped that gentle¬ 
man. 

“Look here,” went on Mr. Dobson determinedly, “do 
you want me to find that boy or do you not?” 

“Good heavens, yes!” almost shouted Mr. Desmond. 

“Then you answer me two questions,” continued Mr. 
Dobson, shaking a rigid finger at Rattray, “and answer 
them quickly. Did that chap in that car come down to 
remove that menace by hook or by crook?” 

“I believe he did,” answered Mr. Rattray; “but he 
did not specifically say so.” 

“He meant taking her by force if no other way pre¬ 
vailed?” 

“I suppose so,” returned Mr. Rattray gloomily. * 
“From what I know of Paddy, I expect he did.” 

“Oh!” snorted Mr. Dobson. “What has Joe Clamper 
to do with this gentleman who is engaged so deeply on 
Lady Racedene’s behalf that forcible abduction doesn’t 
worry him?” 

Mr. Rattray looked up perplexedly. 

“Clamper?” he replied. “Clamper is the Honourable 
Mr. Blakeley’s servant. He was his batman through 




214 


THE BIG HEART 


the war; and he’d go through fire and water for Bill.” 

“Ah,” Mr. Dobson said slowly, “so that’s where my 
old friend Joe comes in, is it? I’m glad it’s nothing 
worse.” 

He went to a trunk and took from it an unused writ¬ 
ing-block of pocket-size, which he handed to Rattray. 

“Write down the Honourable Mr. Blakeley’s address,” 
he ordered, “and the full name and address of ‘Paddy.’ 
Clamper, I suppose, is to be found with Mr. Blakeley.” 
He turned again to the Reverend Brian, who had been 
listening to events with an air of dejected stupefaction. 
“One last question,” he said, “that has to do with things 
you would rather not talk about. Was the boy’s mother, 
Lady Racedene, aware of this menace, or had it so far 
been kept entirely from her?” 

“It had,” rejoined Mr. Desmond quickly. “She knew 
nothing. Now,” he added, with a weary shake of his 
head, “she’ll have to be told everything, I expect. I 
think when she hears of the boy it will kill her. She 
worshipped him.” 

“He went to bed just as usual last night?” questioned 
Mr. Dobson. 

“Just as usual. I go and sit with him an hour maybe 
after lie’s turned in. His mother always did—and she 
being away . . .” He broke off with a heavy sigh. 

Mr. Dobson nodded: he was beginning to realize what 
this Irish gentleman was suffering. 

“We just talk over things,” went on Mr. Desmond in 
an uneven voice—“little things. Strange things, many 
of them,” he said with a wistful little smile; “things that 
would seem funny, perhaps, to many people.” 

Mr. Dobson nodded with sad comprehension, and 
looked again at the cork-framed face with exceeding 
gentleness of expression. Mr. Dobson’s eyes were sus- 


INTO THE VORTEX 


215 


piciously moist: a fact that any one knowing him would 
have been at a loss to explain. 

“Yes,” he said softly, “he was a grand lad—a dear 
fellow. Tell me,” he said suddenly, as though no longer 
caring to dwell upon this aspect of the trouble, “what 
was found this morning? When it was first discov¬ 
ered?” he added. 

“A servant, an old nurse, went to take him a glass 
of milk. He was gone. The window was open—and 
there were not wanting signs of a struggle. He was 
not without courage, and he’d fight.” 

“No sound was heard?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Did you hear anything strange in the night?” he 
inquired slowly. “Anything not usual?” 

Mr. Desmond considered a moment. 

“The only thing I heard that was in any way unusual 
was an ould owl hooting. It struck me as strange, for 
Tve not heard one here before.” 

“And won’t again,” declared Mr. Dobson bluntly. “I 
heard that, and got up to look. It was a signal to a big 
motor that must have been waiting by the gates. It 
went past on the London road at twenty minutes past 
two exactly.” 

Mr. Rattray lifted his head sharply from his writing. 
“Did you see the car?” he demanded excitedly. “Was it 
f)y any chance a big blue limousine with a long aluminium 
bonnet ?” 

“That,” answered Mr. Dobson quickly, “was the iden¬ 
tical car. What do you know about it?” 

“Everything,” answered Mr. Rattray succinctly, “or 
nearly everything. That was the car that brought the for¬ 
eign woman down here. It’s driven by a foxy-looking 
Italian named Domenico, and there was another flashy- 


216 


THE BIG HEART 


looking Italian-American with her whom they called 
Frankie. The number of the car is A 6873.” 

“How do you know all this?” snapped the detective 
quickly. 

For answer Mr. Rattray burst into a rapid but ex¬ 
tremely coherent report of what had happened at “The 
Bear” at Devizes, upon his journey down. When he 
had finished, Mr. Dobson regarded him for a few mo¬ 
ments silently. 

“That’s good,’’ he commended quietly, “that will go 
a long way towards tracing the boy. How many 
servants are there at ‘Claverings’ ?” he asked suddenly of 
Mr. Desmond. 

That gentleman thought a moment. “Six or eight.” 
he answered. “Not more.” 

“Not many for a mansion like that,” commented Mr. 
Dobson curiously. 

“Her ladyship,” said the tutor, somewhat embarressed, 
“was, I think, endeavouring to curtail expenses. The 
estate was left heavily encumbered. The late Earl—” 
he broke off with a shrug of some significance. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Dobson, “I see. He died very sud¬ 
denly, Fve heard—abroad.” 

“America,” responded Mr. Desmond. 

“Did he now?” said Mr. Dobson thoughtfully. 
“That’s very interesting. And what did he die of? Do 
you know?” 

Mr. Desmond fidgeted nervously; an attitude that did 
not escape the keen eyes of his questioner. 

“I—er—I don’t,” answered the tutor unwillingly. 
“H’m.” 

Some mystery concerning the late Earl’s death, thougnt 
Mr. Dobson. You know it and won’t speak. The con¬ 
nection between the place of the late nobleman’s death 
and the menace towards his widow seemed significant. 



f 


INTO THE VORTEX 


217 


“I think now we’ll go over. I want to see the boy’s 
bedroom. That ought to tell some tale. By the way,” 
he asked, “what is the flooring of his room?—carpet?” 

“No,” answered Mr. Desmond, somewhat puzzled; 
“ ’tis plain linoleum in the centre, and the border’s stained 
and varnished.” 

“When would it be dusted last?” pursued the stolid 
Mr. Dobson. 

“Yesterday morning, I suppose,” answered Mr. Des¬ 
mond vaguely. “I don’t suppose they’ll have had time 
to put it to rights this morning yet.” 

“Good God!” ejaculated Mr. Dobson. “I hope not! 
Come! Quick!” 

In the bedroom the detective made a protracted and 
exhaustive examination. Once he stopped, and, kneeling, 
measured with meticulous care something on the floor— 
quite invisible to those intently watching him; to him it 
was plain as a pike-staff—the imprint of a foot. 

“It might have been made by one of the servants,” sug¬ 
gested Mr. Desmond. 

“It might,” agreed Mr. Dobson, “if he wore an Ameri¬ 
can-made heelless ring boot such as boxers wear.” 

At the bedside he stopped again; and for a long time 
pondered something he saw upon the mahogany bedstead; 
then went down to the stairway and examined the ban¬ 
nisters; then, with a nod of satisfaction, gave his first 
deduction. 

“This job,” he announced, “was done by cracksmen— 
experts. The bedroom window was never used at all. 
They entered by one of the French windows from the 
lawn, came upstairs, took the boy, gagged him, and bore 
him out by the same way. There were two men in it, 
one of them with tremendously big hands. Should say, 
from the shoe-print, he’d been a boxer. American prob¬ 
ably, by the ring boots and the fact that he chews gum— 





218 


THE BIG HEART 


pressed the gum against the window-sill and left it; a 
more beautiful Bertillon print I never wish to see. And 
now,” concluded Mr. Dobson, “I want some beeswax. 
The other gentleman has left me a couple of beautiful im¬ 
prints, one on the mahogany of the bed, and one on the 
stair-case. If ever he’s been through our hands—he’s 
mine.” 

Outside the gates Mr. Dobson gave his last carefully- 
weighed instructions. “Not a word,” he ordered, “to a 
soul. I’ll see Mr. Blakeley today. I’m going straight 
to Town. If anything’s known of my two finger-print 
gentlemen I shall know it before night—and of this Dom¬ 
enico person and his blue car. If they’re Americans, I’ve 
a friend in Town whose business it is to know such peo¬ 
ple; and you may believe me he does. I’m going to wire 
him to meet me.” 

They walked across to the little office over which the 
fair and poetically-inclined Hilda presided, and stood for 
a moment at the door while Mr. Dobson certified the 
address of his friend from his pocket-book. 

The fair little postmistress came to the door, a tele¬ 
gram in hand, and stood before Mr. Dobson. 

“Would Mr. Oakley c/o Racedene Arms be for you, 
sir?” she inquired sweetly of that gentleman. “One has 
just this moment come through.” 

“It would,” Mr. Dobson assured her, wondering what 
the deuce was up now. “I thank you.” 

He tore open the telegram and stood gazing at it in un¬ 
paralleled astonishment. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he 
gasped, running his hand through his hair. “Listen to 
this,” he said. “The man spoken of is the American 
detective I was just going to wire. If this doesn’t beat 
anything you ever heard of, I’ll—I’ll eat my hat.” With 
a deep breath he read as follows: “ ‘Dargan early this 

morning seriously wounded Charing Cross Hospital 


INTO THE VORTEX 


219 


wishes see you at once urgent. Honourable William 
Blakeley 79a Pont St.’ Put in at nine this morning,” 
continued Mr. Dobson. “That will be as soon as the 
office opened—at Sunbury-on-Thames. Why there?” 

“Blakeley has friends there,” put in Rattray, “friends 
that he may be visiting. A Mr. Hammerden—John 
Plammerden, the big financier.” 

“Eve heard of Mr. Hammerden,” said Mr. Dobson 
thoughtfully. He pursed his lips and sank into a brown 
study for a moment. “The thing I can’t quite see,” he 
resumed slowly, “is just the connection between the Hon¬ 
ourable Mr. Blakeley and my friend ‘Bull’ Dargan. And 
also where Mr. Hammerden comes into it, too.” 

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Rattray, entirely at a loss. 

“Neither do I,” said Mr. Dobson, “but I promise you I 
will before the day’s out.” 


1 


CHAPTER XIX: A Conference a deux. 

* 6 '\/’ 0 U can bet your sweet life on one thing, Joe,” 
I said Mr. Dargan, his voice coming faintly from 
the stack of pillows by which he was bolstered up: “that 
if those little old Bertillons you’ve got are Derrick H. 
Levigne’s, this game is on the grand scale. The other 
guy is not known, you say. Well, there’s one or two 
of ’em have been creeping in, I find: I’ll have to hustle 
me when I’m off this bed, and round ’em up a bit.” 

“And you think that this 'Frankie’ is your man Poltaro 
the gunman?” 

Mr. Dargan considered for a moment. 

“Look at it all round, Joe, Poltaro is sure up against 
Blakeley—Bill. What for? If he ain’t the ‘Frankie’ of 
the other deal—where do they join up? Search me. 
Blakeley doesn’t know they’ve gotten off with the young 
lordling yet, does he?” 

“No,” answered Mr. Dobson. “I’m going straight on 
to Sunbury. I want to be there when he gets the news.” 

Mr. Dargan nodded acquiescently. 

“It’s my opinion,” he said slowly, “that this bunch of 
boys know who they’re dealing with right through. 
Take Jimmy the V.C. He was on to Spodani’s—you 
an’ me didn’t know that joint from an ordinary feed-and- 
be-frivolous hash foundry. Well now, they did.” 

“It seems to me,” said Mr. Dobson, “that this Racedene 
business is only a part of the whole.” 

“I’m certain of one thing,” declared Mr. Dargan, ‘ 4 nd 
that's that my pal Bill is wise to the whole shoot, what¬ 
ever it is. This Courtenay guy, Paddy, as well. You 

220 


A CONFERENCE A DEUX 


221 


say he’s got away with that dame. What like was she?” 

Mr. Dobson with great care described the appearance 
of the lady he had seen visit at “Claverings.” 

“Sounds like a ‘breed/ ” commented Mr. Dargan per¬ 
plexedly. “But if they’re got her, you can soon get the 
strength from them.” 

“If they prove friendly I may,” answered Mr. Dobson 
dubiously. “If this is a family affair, and they’re trying 
to fight it among themselves they may not want me in— 
you mustn’t forget that it was only the sudden shock of 
the boy’s disappearance that forced the tutor to come 
to me.” 

“That’s so,” admitted Mr. Dargan, “it don’t make it 
easy.” 

“I’ve got no real right in this case at all,” went on Mr. 
Dobson. “It’s only my fondness for the boy that justi¬ 
fies my taking a hand in it.” 

“There was a kid with that half-breed woman, didn’t 
you say?” 

“Yes; and he looked as full of colour as she did; more 
so.” Mr. Dobson paused a moment, rubbing his chin 
reflectively. “I’ve been trying to piece these two boys 
together in some way,” he said slowly. “So far I can’t 
manage it. I’ve an idea if I could it would give me a 
start.” 

“There’s only one way you can do that,” said Mr. Dar¬ 
gan, “and that’s by makin’ ’em both this Earl’s chicks. 
What do your records at The Yard say about the Race- 
dene murder?” 

“They’re very brief. Simply say that he was murdered 
by an Englishman of the name of Haybridge, in Dallas, 
Texas. The Englishman was found guilty, broke jail, 
and escaped; believed to have got away to England. 
That and a photograph of the missing Haybridge are all 
we’ve got.” 


222 


THE BIG HEART 


“No mention of any entanglement with women?” 

“None whatever,” answered Mr. Dobson. “It was the 
woman in the case I was looking for.” 

For some minutes there was a silence between them, 
Mr. Dargan staring hard at the ceiling above him. 

“Joe,” he said suddenly, “there was a woman in that 
case. I’ll swear to it. Funny enough, I was down at 
Waco during the whole of the trial. The man who put 
in most of the evidence—can’t think of his name, but he 
was a ‘breed’—his sister came up in the case. Now wffet 
the blazes did she have to do with it?” 

Again he peered with strained concentration at the 
ceiling; Mr. Dobson, keenly alert, watching him. 

“Royal was the name!” said Dargan suddenly. 

“Royal.” 

“The boy’s name is Royal,” interjected Mr. Dobson 
eagerly, “Eric Royal.” 

“So was the murdered man’s,” returned Dargan; “and 
the woman—the woman,” he cried triumphantly, “was 
Lo—Lona—Lona—what th’ hell!” he demanded of his 
memory—“Lona Howard. Got ya !” 

Mr. Dobson, not without excitement, drew his chair 
closer. 

“This Lona Howard, Joe,—she was his wife. I’d take 
my oath on that as I remember it.” 

“His wife!” echoed Mr. Dobson blankly. 

“I’m sure of it,” insisted Mr. Dargan; “but there was 
something to her—if I could only remember.” He 
thought for some minutes, then shook his head wearily. 
“No go,” he murmured. “Too far back, and I wasn’t on 
the job.” 

Mr. Dobson calculated rapidly; his face growing tenser 
with each moment. 

“Then if he was married to this—this Howard woman 



A CONFERENCE A DEUX 


223 


before,”—he paused, gazing at his friend—“Lady Race- 
dene is not Lady Racedene, and the boy . . 

Mr. Dargan, watching him closely, inclined his head. 

“They’re on the blink,” he remarked shortly, “both 
of ’em.” 

“And if this woman who’s here is Lona How¬ 
ard ... ?” 

“Your Lady Racedene and her son can pack up and 
quit,” added Mr. Dargan briefly. “You’ve put your foot 
right fair in the middle of the game. I wish to the Lord 
that I could think what there was to that woman at the 
trial.” 

“I wish to Heaven you could,” responded his friend fer¬ 
vently. 

For a moment Mr. Dargan lay perfectly still, his eyes 
closed tightly. 

“I got it in my nut,” he observed slowly and carefully, 
“that something had happened to that woman before the 
trial—there was something about a baby in that too. 
Either she’d had a baby and it died—or—or something,” 
he finished lamely, with a beaten grin. 

“But he was married before he went out there that 
second time,” said Mr. Dobson in a puzzled way. “Must 
have been, of course.” 

“Couldn’t very well have married after he’d been 
corpsed,” grinned Mr. Dargan. 

Mr. Dobson ran his hands through his hair. 

“Did his wife—this Lona Howard—give evidence at 
the trial?” he asked. 

“No—not that I can remember.” 

“Why not?” demanded Mr. Dobson. “Funny, isn’t it? 
Wife of a—an English nobleman and all that.” 

Mr. Dargan looked at him queerly. 

“Come to think of it, it is funny,” he returned. “Dam 





224 


THE BIG HEART 


funny.” He lay still for a few minutes, thinking. “She 
didn’t, though, all the same.” 

“Why?” demanded Mr. Dobson bluntly. 

“I don’t know, Joe,” answered Mr. Dargan, “but if 
you’re dead anxious to, we’ll soon find out. Get a piece 
of paper and take this down.” 

For over half-an-hour Mr. Dargan dictated and Mr. 
Dobson faithfully transcribed the most intricate and 
complex code in cypher it had ever been his lot to come 
across. When it was finally finished, the invalid inspected 
it and passed it all O. K. 

“Now, Joe,” he said, “when you go out, cable that 
straight across. There’ll be an answer from the Chief 
at Dallas some time tomorrow morning. You’ll know 
then where you stand. So far as this Domenico guy is 
concerned, go you to the Monico, find a little wizened 
guy of a waiter, name of Luigi. Drop Luigi one Fisher 
from me and tell him he’s due at my bed of sickness 
forthwith. When Fm through with him Fll tell you all 
of this Domenico boy and his blue buzz-car there is to 
know; but don’t get near him, Joe. If Levigne is in this 
job that’s the white-headed boy we’re after. He’s the 
bird that’s got to have the salt on his tail. And watch 
Spodani’s night and day—but not with flat-feet, Joe. 
Don’t let any of them sixteen-stone pavement-flatteners 
of yours get near it—their hoofs shout their trade from 
here t’—t’ Heaven.” 

Mr. Dobson smiled; he had heard Mr. Dargan’s whim¬ 
sical opinion of his subordinates too many times to take 
offence. 

“You leave that to me,” he replied. “The men I put on 
this job will know their work, and do it.” 

“All I ask of you,’’ responded Mr. Dargan earnestly, 
“is, don’t scare that Poltaro bird. I want him myself; 
and when I get him, I’ll manhandle that dago gent right 



A CONFERENCE A DEUX 


225 


out of business; and I’ll show you I don’t have to be 
taught how to do it.” 

Mr. Dobson rose. 

“I won’t scare him,” he promised. “It’s the boy I 
want; but I’ll take good care that none of the gang that’s 
in this business will get very far once I have him.” 

“If you see Bill,” said Mr. Dargan, “give him my af¬ 
fection. But for him that Baptista guy would have got 
clear, and Poltaro would have croaked me for sure. As 
I figure it, I’m standin’ behind Bill in this case.” 

Mr. Dobson studied the interior of his hat for some 
seconds. 

“I expect,” he answered thoughtfully, “that we both are. 
But supposing that what we expect from Texas makes it 
certain that this woman is the genuine thing; and that the 
Honourable Mr. Blakeley and his friends are playing 
some desperate—and some illegally desperate—game on 
his sister’s behalf? Where do we all stand then?” 

“In that case,” answered Mr. Dargan with extreme suc¬ 
cinctness, “we are all standin’ heart to heart and hand 
to hand up to our necks in the soup! But I’m figuring 
on Frankie Poltaro and Mr. Derrick Levigne never hav¬ 
ing been mixed up in a square game in their lives; and, 
moreover, Joe, there’s something to that woman Lona 
Howard; you stand on me there’s a flea in her ointment for 
sure.” 

“But why kidnap the boy?” protested Mr. Dobson. 

“Because they’re in a hurry,” answered Mr. Dargan 
positively, “and when two crooks are in a hurry there’s 
something fishy. Get your hands on that woman,” he 
advised, “and as soon as I’m about I’ll tear her story to 
shreds, and her too, if there’s anything ’phony about it.” 

“When do they think you’ll be about?” questioned Mr. 
Dobson. 

“They reckon on about three weeks,” he answered hu- 




226 


THE BIG HEART 


morously; but if my shadow ain’t chasing me up the side¬ 
walk in a week—I’m—I’m a Dago. They ain’t as used 
to having bullet-holes shot in ’em as I am; I’m hardened 
to it. Let me know how it goes.” 

For some minutes Mr. Dobson stood in the Strand and 
pondered the results of his interview with the unfortu¬ 
nate American—he concluded that they were good—a 
distinct moving forward. He hailed a passing taxi, and 
ordering to be taken to Waterloo station, relapsed into 
a brown study. He awoke out of this with a start on the 
Bridge, tapped sharply upon the window, rescinded his 
former instructions, and demanded to be driven to Pont 
Street instead. 

The door of the Honourable Mr. Blakeley’s chambers 
was opened to him by Mr. Joseph Clamper, upon whom 
Mr. Dobson beamed with exceeding cordiality. A very 
different Mr. Clamper this to the besweated ragamuffin 
who had come face to face with Mr. Oakley at “Claver- 
ings”—a very different person. Alert, neatly-clad, so 
obviously a reformed character in every direction that it 
quite touched Mr. Dobson to observe the colour recede 
from his soap-polished features, leaving them of the hue 
of a greenish-tinged putty. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Dobson heartily. “The very gentle¬ 
man I wish to see.” 

“There—there’s some mistake, sir, isn’t there?” re¬ 
turned the clammy-looking Joseph in an almost inaudible 
voice. 

“Not that I’m aware of, Joe,’’ returned Mr. Dobson 
with great heartiness of demeanour. “I don’t make 
many mistakes—as you should know.” 

“No, sir,—no, Mr. Dobson, sir,” stammered the 
stricken one. 

“The Honourable Mr. Blakeley at home?” pursued Mr. 
Dobson with still greater equability. 




A CONFERENCE A DEUX 


227 


“No, sir, he’s—” 

“I know,” interjected the visitor; “at Sunbury. At 
Mr. Hammerden’s—Mr. John Hammerden’s.” 

“Yes—yes, sir,” again stammered Mr. Clamper. 

“Now I want a word with you, Clamper,” went on 
Mr. Dobson sternly. “And this landing isn’t the place 
to say it—for your sake.” 

“Come in, Mr. Dobson sir,” invited Mr. Clamper, al¬ 
most inaudible with nervousness. “If you won’t mind 
my kitchen, sir.” 

“That,” said Mr. Dobson, “will do splendidly.” 

He entered; Mr. Clamper led the way to his own par¬ 
ticular domain, where, having placed a chair in the centre 
of the room for his visitor, and carefully dusted it, he 
closed the door and anxiously awaited events. 

Mr. Dobson gazed about him at the highly-polished and 
scrupulously clean little kitchen and gave a nod of com¬ 
plete approbation. 

“Your work?” he questioned. 

“Yes, sir,” admitted Mr. Clamper hurriedly. “I been 
with the Honourable Mr. Blakeley since ’14. Batman 
out there, sir—and ’ere since he came back. I’m a—” 

Mr. Dobson lifted a hand: Mr. Clamper stopped dead 
with the suddenness of an automatic machine, and stood 
to attention. Undoubtedly, Mr. Dobson noted with sat¬ 
isfaction, the ex-delinquent had acquired discipline. 

“I know all about what you are, Clamper,” he observed 
solemnly, “and all about what you’ve done. I have you 
here.” Mr. Dobson touched the breast-pocket of his coat 
with considerable portentousness, and shook his head 
sadly. “That’s why I’m more than sorry to have to 
come and—and take you out of it.” 

Clamper started; his face assumed an even greener hue, 
livid to the lips. 

“Mr. Dobson, sir,” he started wildly. “I ain’t done 



228 


THE BIG HEART 


nothink, sir! S’welp me Gawd, I ’aven’t. There’s some 
mistake, sir,—my guv’nor’ll answer for me. I ain’t never 
laid my ’and on a thing, Mr. Dobson, sir,—since I come 
out fr’m my las’ stretch.” 

Mr. Dobson, considerably moved by this impassioned 
appeal, shook his head and assumed a look of judicial 
urbanity. The tone of his voice was tinged more by sor¬ 
row than anger. 

“It’s bigger than that, Clamper,” he said quietly; “much 
bigger than that; and for a man with your record, much 
more serious.” 

“What am I charged with?” cried Mr. Clamper franti¬ 
cally. 

“You’re charged,” answered Mr. Dobson solemnly, 
“with criminal abduction. The forcible abduction with 
violence of a lady and a little boy; the penalty for which 
is a matter of seven years penal. In your case,” he 
added offhandedly, “they’ll probably make it ten—all 
depends on the judge.” 

To say that Mr. Clamper gazed blankly at his inter¬ 
rogator does not do justice to the facial expression which 
transformed him from an active and youngish man into 
a drawn and haggard-eyed old one. 

“But—” he began, glaring wildly around him as 
though seeking some explanation. As he did so, bit by 
bit, slowly and steadily, a blank bewilderment settled down 
upon his face and his jaw dropped with the expression of 
a man who knows himself to be lost. 

“Ah,” thought Mr. Dobson critically, “you’re realizing 
that you’ve got to give away your guv’nor’s game to save 
your own skin. Now then, Clamper,” he said sharply, 
“what have you got to say? Out with it!” 

Mr. Clamper’s jaw shut down stubbornly, and he faced 
Mr. Dobson with an air of stolid resignation. 



A CONFERENCE A DEUX 


229 


“Nothink,” he said shortly. “It ain’t my game an’ I 
got nothink to say about it.” 

“Good man,” thought Mr. Dobson. “You’re a fool,” 
was what he said. 

“Mebbe. I got nothink to say,” repeated Clamper stub¬ 
bornly. 

“Mr. Courtenay and Mr. Ferriby will get out of it 
lightly. You’re the one that will suffer. You see, I’ve 
got it all pat.” 

Clamper shook his head. “That’s their job,” he 
grunted. “I got nothink to say.” 

“Mr. Blakeley won’t thank you for keeping your mouth 
shut.” 

“Let ’im come ’ere an’ say so, then,” retorted the faith¬ 
ful Clamper. “ ’E never ’ad nothing t’do with it any’ow; 
and you nor nobody else can’t say as ’e ’ad.” 

Mr. Dobson stroked his beard and smiled. He was be¬ 
ginning to appreciate Clamper. There was something 
very British about his mulish obstinacy; and Clamper 
joined up in ’14, he remembered. Mr. Dobson slowly 
produced his pocket-book and perused it frowningly. 

“Now that’s very strange,” he observed curiously, “be¬ 
cause both the woman and the child swear he had.” 

Mr. Clamper’s mouth opened in unmitigated astonish¬ 
ment. “Who did?” he demanded. 

“The American lady and her child.” 

Clamper’s jaw dropped: “They’ve—they’ve got 
away?” he gasped. 

“Well, not exactly got away,” answered Mr. Dobson, 
persuasively tentative : “Hardly that.” 

“Then Heggit’s sold us!” flashed Clamper, his fists 
clenching spasmodically. “Barney’s sold us!” 

Mr. Dobson, with apparent carelessness, but extreme 
rapidity, ran the leaves of his note-book to the letter H., 


230 


THE BIG HEART 


took a glance, then with a sigh of relief closed it. Mr. 
Heggit figured therein; a hieroglyphic against his name 
signifying that he was strongly suspected of adding the 
receivership of stolen property to his other enterprises. 

Mr. Dobson rose. The visit had been amply repaid. 

“Wrong, Clamper,” he said, clapping that savage-look¬ 
ing worthy upon the shoulder with great heartiness. 
“Barney Heggitt has told me nothing. I haven’t set 
eyes on him this ten months or more, so he couldn’t; but 
you have.” 

“Me!” uttered Clamper, gazingat Mr. Dobson in grow¬ 
ing horror. “Me?” 

“You,” returned Mr. Dobson; “and the best day’s 
work for your guv’nor you’ve ever done in your life. 
You’ve got nothing to fear from me, Clamper, as long as 
you go as you’re going now; but there’s a big game on— 
a long way too big for you to be in. As it happens, you’re 
on the right side—at least,” he amended cautiously, “I 
think so.” 

“As long as I ain’t done nothink wrong towards my 
guv’nor,” began Clamper, “I don’t care—” 

“Do you know what happened after you’d gone last 
night?” asked Mr. Dobson quickly. 

“No, sir,” whispered Clamper, agog with excitement. 

“Keep this to yourself,” ordered Mr. Dobson. “I’m 
going down now to Sunbury to let the Honourable Mr. 
Blakeley know. At half-past two this morning they kid¬ 
napped the boy—the little Earl of Racedene.” 

“Good Gawd A’mighty!” whispered Mr. Clamper. “I 
can’t believe it! My guv’nor’ll go ravin’ mad when ’e 
’ears! ’E’s awful fond o’ that kid. ’E—” He sud¬ 
denly started, and placing his fingers to his lips in token 
of caution, opened his kitchen door, listened a moment, 
and closed it silently. 

“ ’Er ladyship,” he whispered. “She’s in there. She 



A CONFERENCE A DEUX 


231 


—she won’t know nothink about it! Well, strike me 
pink!” murmured Mr. Clamper, subsiding weakly upon 
a chair lately occupied by the detective, and appealing 
helplessly to that gentleman. “Strike me pink, there’s 
a perishin’ lot of bleeders for yer!” 

“What is her ladyship doing here?” demanded Mr. 
Dobson quickly. 

“She’s a-writin’ some letters,” answered Clamper. 
“She’s a-goin’ ’ome t’morrer. And she won’t know 
nothink about it!” 

A telephone-bell in Mr. Blakeley’s sitting-room rang 
suddenly. 

“Now who the devil’s that?” said Mr. Clamper irately. 
“I do ’ope it’s nothink as she shouldn’t ’ear. She’s 
bound for to answer it. Just a minute, sir,” he whis¬ 
pered, and slipped across the room. 

As the inner door opened, Mr. Dobson caught a glimpse 
of the Countess standing at a telephone that hung in a 
corner of the room. Clamper returned upon tip-toe, clos¬ 
ing the door as he came. 

“Mr. Dobson, sir,” he whispered, “who’s ever agoin’ to 
break a thing like that to ’er? It’ll send her—” 

For the second time that afternoon Mr. Clamper’s 
voice was cut off suddenly in his throat. A terrible cry 
came from the inner room. The next moment the dull 
thud of a falling body was heard. 

“Quick!” shouted Mr. Dobson. “She’s fainted.” 

“A thousand quid to one,” hissed Clamper, springing 
for the door, “as somebody’s told ’er.” 

“On that sofa with her,” whispered Mr. Dobson fren- 
ziedly, “and do the best you can. I want the ’phone.” 

He picked up the receiver. 

“Who’s there?” he called sharply. 

“Ah,” answered a quiet American voice. “I thought 
you’d gone.” 


232 


THE BIG HEART 


% 


“Who is it speaking?” again demanded Mr. Dobson. 

“I was speaking to Lady Racedene,” replied the voice 
quietly. “Who are you?” 

“Blakeley,” said Mr. Dobson. “I’ve just come in. 
Come to business.” 

“Willingly,” answered the voice triumphantly. I 
thought we’d bring you. You thought it a clever move 
when you got away with the woman—the real Lady Race¬ 
dene, let me inform you—but I reckon we've squared 
things up with the young gentleman. On the other hand, 
I consider Mr. Hammerden—or Arthur Haybridge, just 
as he likes—knows now that I’m not to be trifled with. 
He knows the price I want. I'll give him three days to 
pay it if he wants to see his daughter again—or Schorn- 
hurst his, for the matter of that. That goes!” 

“Who did you say?” inquired Mr. Dobson cautiously. 
“Arthur who?” 

“Oh, come off that bluff, Blakeley,” said the voice im¬ 
patiently. “You know as much of that as I do; but in 
case you don't; in case Mr. John Hammerden is keeping 
you in the dark, you may as well know that John Ham¬ 
merden and the Arthur Haybridge who murdered Race¬ 
dene are one and the same man." 

Mr. Dobson clapped his hand over the receiver and 
whistled in sheer amazement. This game was getting 
exceedingly interesting. He turned again to the 
’phone. 

“I don't believe you,” he said bluntly. 

“The voice laughed, a bitter, cynical laugh. “You will 
before you’re through,” it answered. “And look here,” 
it went on harshly, “you keep out of the Hammerden job, 
if you’re wise. You had a narrow squeak last night— 
next time you won’t be so lucky. Look after your sister’s 
affairs, if you like; but keep out of the other, or it will 




A CONFERENCE A DEUX 


233 


be the worse for you—take that from one who knows/’ 

“And who might that be?” inquired Mr. Dobson 
quietly. 

Again the voice laughed gently. “Suppose we say 
David J. Hartnell?” it suggested. 

An inspiration flashed across the active brain of De¬ 
tective-Inspector Dobson. 

“I think we’d be nearer,” he retorted quietly, “if we 
said Derrick H. Levigne.” 

There was a whirr, and Mr. Dobson found himself cut 

off. 

Instantly he rang on again, to be answered by the girl 
on exchange. 

“Number, please?” she asked languidly. 

“I’m Detective-Inspector Dobson of Scotland Yard,” 
he said quickly. “Give me the number that’s just cut off 
here.” 

After a moment the girl answered, “Tilbury 193—a 
public ’phone.” 

“Thanks.” 

Mr. Dobson rang off, and turned to find Mr. Clamper, 
with an exceedingly white face, fanning the prostrate 
form of the Countess of Racedene after the same prin¬ 
ciple that he would apply to a fallen boxer in the ring. 
The beads of nervous perspiration were upon his lips and 
forehead, and the expression of his face denoted abject 
misery. 

“Is there a woman anywhere to be got?” asked Mr. 
Dobson anxiously. 

“There’s Mr. ’Alloby’s housekeeper across the ’all, sir,” 
replied Clamper. 

“Get her, then,” ordered Mr. Dobson. “I’m off to 
Sunbury. Not a word, Clamper,” he warned. “Not a 
word to a living souk” 


234 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. Dargan was lying flat on his back, in the process 
of digesting a supper that had made his nurse stare; his 
mind turning ruminatively upon the extraordinary con¬ 
catenation of events during the last four-and-twenty 
hours; when to his amazement a shadow stole softly 
across his bed, and looking up, he discovered the principal 
occupant of his thoughts. 

“Joe!” he exclaimed. 

“That’s me,” answered Mr. Dobson, seating himself 
tiredly upon the edge of the bed. 

“Well?” inquired Mr. Dargan jocularly, “and what 
d’ye know now?” 

“Everything,” answered Mr. Dobson quietly. “Ex¬ 
cept for what we hope the cable will bring tomorrow— 
everything. I’ve got the whole of the Racedene busi¬ 
ness, from A. to Z.” 

“You’ve been blame quick about it!” commented Mr. 
Dargan, in some surprise. “Then perhaps you can tell 
something about the escaped murderer—Haybridge?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Dobson simply, “I can put my hands 
on him for you at any time you want. But I’m going to 
ask you, Dargan,” he went on impressively, “as a great 
favour to myself, not to want for a while—at any rate 
until I can get my hands on a man called Howarth—not 
Howard—Howarth. ” 

Mr. Dargan regarded the Scotland Yard men earnestly. 
“It strikes me," he proceeded thoughtfully, “that by the 
sound of you, you’re going to deliver the goods.” 

Mr. Dobson yawned. His day had not been an easy 
one for a stoutish, middle-aged man. 

“I generally do,” he answered wearily, “when I’m let 
alone long enough.” 


CHAPTER XX: Mr. Jeremiah McGraw Exhibits his 
Chameleon-like Qualities 

“TT 7 HAT gets me wingin’,’’ observed Mr. McGraw, 
V V a very real note of protest in his genial voice, 
“is what youse dames is twistin’ your beans like you was 
sore wit’ me. Youse wanna git away; you’re sure sore 
on this swell apartment what you don’ wanna stop in. 
You got my symp’ty. ‘When do we git out?’ says youse. 
Search me. So soon’s your pappas coughs up their little 
wad, I figure. But until they unloose, you don’t have 
t’ fear nottin’ coinin’ near youse what spells trouble. 
Not wit me aroun’. No, ma’amses: not on your life.” 

“You’ve been very kind,” said the little golden-haired 
Penelope, her eyes flashing, “and Pm sure you mean us 
no harm.” 

“Not so you could see it wit’ a micryscope,” assured 
Mr. McGraw earnestly. “I ain’t no stiff what hands lip 
to ladies what’s got a bit of trouble on.” 

“There—there are others!” said Miss Schornhurst, 
fearfully. “Last night—” She broke off with a shud¬ 
der. 

“I git you,” responded Mr. McGraw frowningly. “A 
low-down lot o’ Dagoes what hit the wine when I had 
to be away on biznis. I tol’ The Parson they was sure 
trouble wit’ you an’ them in this lay-out.” 

“There was one,” said the little Penelope, breathing 
hard, “who was not an Italian. He was an American; 
a huge, dark brute! He insulted my friend. “Oh!” 
she exclaimed, “the beast! the unspeakable beast!” 

Miss Schornhurst, at the memory of some bitter humil- 

235 


236 


THE BIG HEART 


iation, covered her face and broke into a torrent of ago¬ 
nized tears. Mr. McGraw’s cheerful features at that mo¬ 
ment expressed nothing but the most profound dejection. 

“Don’t Ronny,” whispered Penelope. “Oh, don’t. 
Perhaps it won’t happen again. This gentleman—” 

McGraw stiffened up; a curious expression came into 
the glint of his usually jovial eyes. 

“Lady,” he said, “it won't —betcha life! I’m in charge 
o’ youse, an’ I’m doin’ it same what I would my sisters, 
on’y I ain’ got none. That guy," he continued, his eyes 
narrowing ominously, “is sure askin' for trouble. If 
him or them Dagoes thinks they got a sucker in The Par¬ 
son, they're away off it. Them Eyetalians ain’ had much 
t’ do wit’ him yet, so they ain’ wise. When they are,” 
concluded Mr. McGraw, “they’ll find him hell wit’out 
mercy, Amen.” 

“You understand that we shall try to escape from this 
place if we get a chance?" said Penelope stoutly. 

Mr. McGraw studied his golden-haired guest atten¬ 
tively and smiled; but there was no mirth in his smile, 
and he shook his head slowly. 

“Say?" he inquired. “If you was t’ git out of this 
door an’ down them stairs into the hands of them Eye¬ 
talians—what? I mightn’t be roun’ at the minnit—say 
what?” 

Penelope and Miss Schornhurst stared at him in fas¬ 
cinated horror. Below could be heard the chink of 
glasses and the high-pitched, excited voices of the Ital¬ 
ians. Over them all came the bull-like roar of Howarth, 
the “breed.” 

“No,” continued Mr. McGraw seriously, “I ain’ gonna 
advise you takin’ a chance thataway." He crossed to 
the large window, flung it open and peered down to where 
a straight line of wall ended in a dark, slimy pool. 

“Whatta you goin’ ta do greasin’ down that wall?” 


HIS CHAMELEON-LIKE QUALITIES 237 


he inquired. “You ain’t no second-floor yegg that can 
skin a rainpipe silent—they ain’t no rainpipe, if you was. 
An’—an’ say,” he said, suddenly pointing down to where 
an enormous boarhound was ranging round with mut¬ 
tered snarls and foam-beslavered fangs in and out the 
shrubs. “See that wall-eyed swine? They ain’ nuttin’ 
gonna stop that dorg eatin’ youse alive, bar a bullet sure 
pop t’roo his bean. Nix on th’ escape stunt, kids,” he 
concluded kindly. “They’s nuttin’ between you an’ a 
bunch o’ trouble ’ceptin’ me an’ that door.” 

The din below rose to discordant heights. Mr. Mc- 
Graw made a grimace of abject disgust. 

“A bright bunch!” he exclaimed. “Say, that little 
Eyetalian girl, Netta, is seein’ to youse all good?” 

“Oh, yes,” answered Miss Schornhurst, “she is very 
kind and attentive. Poor girl, she seems in trouble too; 
her eyes are red with crying.” 

“She sure has a bunch o’ trouble on,” admitted Mr. 
McGraw lugubriously. “He’s name is Pietro; what he’s 
her husban’. I dunno where these bright-eyes finds 
rough-neck goofs like them—an’ sticks to ’em. Search 
me!” 

He moved to the door. 

“Any time,” he began diffidently, “they’s anything 
what you want like of—of ladies’ fixin’s what ain’t 
aroun’, you lip it to Netta. She can get it on the hop. 
An’—an’ if you ain’t fixed so you got your cash roll 
roun’ at the minnit, I gotta few bucks what’ll git you 
what you want an’ more.” 

With which delicate proffer of financial assistance, 
McGraw withdrew, closing the door and locking it upon 
them. 

“Oh, thank God,” cried the beautiful Miss Schorn¬ 
hurst, “for some one decent in this awful place. I—I 
think he means us no harm. Will he be able to keep 


238 


THE BIG HEART 


those others from us? Oh, Penny, that terrible brute 
last night! If he comes near me again—I'll—I’ll go 
mad.” 

At the recollection of the happening of the previous 
night, when the huge half-breed, maddened and flame¬ 
eyed, had burst into the room, seized the unfortunate 
Veronica in his ape-like arms, covering her with bestial 
kisses, and then attempting to drag her from the room, 
the stout-hearted little Penelope flushed to the roots of 
her hair, and shivered. His purpose had been frustrated 
by the timely return of their keeper, McGraw. The 
American girl shuddered and buried her face in her 
hands. 

“I'm sure he won’t,” comforted the little Hammerden, 
stroking her friend’s hair, “and I’m certain he was on 
guard outside all night. I am sure I heard him moving 
at times.” 

Which, in justice to Mr. McGraw, must be stated as 
a fact: that gentleman had spent the remainder of the 
evening lolling against the recessed door-posts of the 
captives’ violated sanctuary. Mr. McGraw leant there 
with closed eyes, his jaws working incessantly upon a piece 
of tobacco. Each of his hands was thrust into a coat- 
pocket, and in them was the butt of a blue stub-nosed 
gun. 

“Yes,” whispered Veronica, “I feel it a relief even to 
know he’s here. Why is a kindly man like that among 
these awful wretches?” 

Miss Hammerden shrugged her shoulders sadly. 

“I expect because he’s a criminal like the others,” she 
replied sadly; “but he’s a manly one. Indeed,” added 
Miss Penelope, “I rather like him.” 

Which, if Mr. McGraw had been apprised of this in¬ 
telligence, would have surprised him greatly. 

The key twirled again in the lock, and both girls 


HIS CHAMELEON-LIKE QUALITIES 239 


rose anxiously. They were reassured, however, by the 
spectacle of Mr. McGraw appearing again around the 
doorway. 

“I wuz jes’ gonna say,” he whispered, “that if youse 
dames hearn anything troo that door yes’day or does 
t'day,”—he jerked his head in the direction of a com¬ 
municating door which apparently led into their apart¬ 
ment from another, “ ’tain’ nuttin’ you gotta worry 
about. ’S’on’y a small guy aroun’ about ten year young 
we brung in the same night as youse.” 

“Do you mean that he’s a prisoner like us?” asked 
Veronica compassionately. “Oh, poor little thing!” 

“Why,” explained Mr. McGraw, scratching his head 
perplexedly, “ ’s’on’y a matter of biznis. Nobody ain’ 
gonna do ’im no ’arm—not wit’out a bunch of trouble 
slidin’ their way quick. He’s a Earl,” announced Mr. 
McGraw, with considerable unction. 

“A what!” asked both young ladies together, in amaze¬ 
ment. 

“A Earl,” answered Mr. McGraw perfunctorily; “an’ 
he’s the goods—a dead game un, for sure. Me an’ him 
didn’t git t’gether at first; but we kinda cotton more 
now. I got him some readin’ yes’day to pass the time; 
stuff what I useta like when I was a kid. They’s ‘Dead- 
wood Dick’s las’ Gasp’ and ‘Ruby Rob the Road Agen’ ’ 
an’ a bunch more. He’s kinda shook on Ruby Rob. 
They’s one,” he informed them with a note of dubious¬ 
ness in his voice, “called ‘Melchisydeck the Mormon.’ 
I don’t know as I shoulda left him that—he’s mebbe 
too young.” 

“Is he very lonely?” asked the tender-hearted Veron¬ 
ica. “Does he cry?” 

“Up ta this morning,” remarked Mr. McGraw with 
an expansive grin, “he ain’ wep’ none. Mos’ time he’s 
bin givin’ me back chat an’ promisin’ what his Uncle 




240 


THE BIG HEART 


Bill’s gonna do wit’ me when he lays holta me. I like 
kids,” explained Mr. McGraw. “Me an’ him’ll sure hit 
it good.” 

“His Uncle Bill?” questioned Miss Hammerden 
slowly. Her eyes met those of her friend in a stare of 
blank amazement: Miss Schornhurst returned her look 
with one of equal significance. 

“Reckon his Uncle Bill is that long gazebo what blew 
in at the soup joint. Well, he sure is big enough to 
busta guy’s nut; an’ by Crumps,” said Mr. McGraw for¬ 
cibly, “he is mos’ certainly th’ ugliest guy whatever I 
trun a lamp on.” 

Miss Schornhurst started: there was a very decided 
tinge of indignation in her voice when she spoke. “I 
expect you mean the Honourable Mr. Blakeley,” she said 
coldly. 

“That, lady,” replied Jerry, “is sure his monniker.” 

“Couldn’t we—” broke in Miss Hammerden quickly— 
“I mean, it must be fearfully lonely for the little chap, 
for all your very kind books . . .” she smiled so sweetly 
upon Mr. McGraw at this reference to his thoughtfulness 
that he flushed and grinned. “Couldn’t he come in here 
sometimes for company? He might come through that 
door,” she added eagerly, “and no one would ever know. 
I’m sure you’ve no wish to—to make it harder for—for 
a little boy like that?” 

“Me?” said Mr. McGraw. He stopped, fingering his 
head and considering. “I don' see nuttin’ agen his Earl¬ 
dom blowin’ in here for a yawp. Nobody ain’ said what 
he wuzn’t ta. I’m—I’m gonna see his Earldom now; 
him an’ me’ll con-fer.” 

With which decision Mr. McGraw again withdrew, 
and the key turned in the lock. 

Upon opening the door of the adjacent room he was 
faced by his small lordship, who, seated upon an old 


HIS CHAMELEON-LIKE QUALITIES 241 


divan, was buried in one of those small works which the 
high quality of the covering denoted as a “blood”—one 
penny plain and twopence coloured. 

At Mr. McGraw’s entrance he dropped his literature 
and sprang up eagerly. 

“Did you see my mother as you promised?” he de¬ 
manded eagerly. 

Mr. McGraw closed the door, and lowered his voice to 
a subdued whisper that betokened great mystery. 

“I did mos’ cert’nly, yer Earlery,” he replied with the 
most flagrant disregard for the truth. “I wenta Town 
an’ seen her ’s mornin’.” 

His lordship clasped his small hands. “Oh, what did 
she say?” he questioned anxiously. “And was she all 
right?” 

He stood breathing hard, his eyes fastened so wist¬ 
fully upon Mr. McGraw’s that that gentleman found 
it extremely difficult to meet them squarely. 

“You don’ haveta worry,” he commenced, not without 
hesitation. “Your mommer was lookin’ so good what 
you wouldn’ know she had a care, an’—an’ she sends her 
love an’—an’ you wasta stan’ pat an’ stick it.” 

“Yes, yes?” exclaimed his lordship eagerly. “What 
else?” 

“I told her,” went on Mr. McGraw determinedly, “that 
you was sure stickin’ it like a—like a Earl. ‘Did he 
cry?’ arsts she; an’ I says you wouldn’ spurt a tear not if 
they wasta boil ye in oil.” 

“That’s right, that’s right!” urged his small lordship, 
his eyes appearing suspiciously moist at the moment, 
for all the stoutness of his insistence. 

“Which they ain't,” continued Mr. McGraw hurriedly. 
“They ain’t gonna do you harm anyway. ‘You tell him,’ 
says your Maw, ‘that it’ll be on’y a day of two, an’ it’ll 
be all fixed. All he’s gotta do,’ says she, ‘is lay low, 



242 


THE BIG HEART 


an’ eat hearty, an’—an’ say his prayers at night, while 
me and his Uncle Bill puts the kibosh on them low, 
two-spot, four-flushin’ scum what’s workin’ the frame- 
up. 

“Was my Uncle Bill there with her?” asked his lord- 
ship, who had listened to this peroration from the lips 
of his absent mother with sparkling eyes and little intent 
nods. 

“Ain’ he a guy with a face what—” Mr. McGraw al¬ 
tered his criticism while the words trembled on his lips 
to one of milder form, “what looks like a fighter?” 

“Yes,” assured the maligned one’s adoring nephew, 
“that’s Uncle Bill. He’s a very great fighter. He killed 
hundreds of Germans in the war.” 

“Then that’s the feller,” said Mr. McGraw. “ ‘You 
tell my nephew,’ says he, ‘to sit tight and hold th’ fort,’ 
says he, ‘while his ole Uncle Bill puts a dent into some 
o’ these punk what’s handin’ th’ cold deck to his Maw.’ ” 

“No! did he?” gasped his small lordship, in an ecstacy 
of admiration. “They won’t beat my Uncle Bill, will 
they ?” 

“Them what thinks they will,” declared Mr. McGraw 
perfunctorily, “trouble is sure gonna git ’em by the short 
hair!” 

Mr. McGraw drew from his capacious pocket a fairish¬ 
sized box, carefully wrapped in brown paper. 

“Your Momma,” began Mr. McGraw awkwardly, 
“passed you along this dope—an’ you ainta eat more’n a 
sixer at a go.” “These” turned out to be a highly ornate 
box of chocolates, which were received by the Earl of 
Racedene with every symptom of delight. 

“It really is good of you to have brought them for 
me. I’m sure I ’pologize most awfully about being so 
rude to you when I first came; but you see I didn’t under- 



HIS CHAMELEON-LIKE QUALITIES 243 


stand then about the mystery and—and the frame-uppers, 
so I couldn’t know, could I?” 

He extended a small hand, which Mr. McGraw took 
in his with entire heartiness. 

“No!” said that gentleman fervently. “Don’ say 
anudder nuttink .They’s nope to it an’ it’s all forgot.” 
He changed the subject hastily, picking up the literature 
lately the material of the Earl’s deep and fascinated 
study. “How’s this guy Ruby Rob pannin’ out?” 

“It’s most int’resting,” answered his lordship. “Just 
where I left off, he was hanging to the back of the Over¬ 
land Express train. It said by the skin of his teeth, 
but not really” 

“He was some smart Alec if he was,” declared Mr. 
McGraw dubiously. 

“He’d shot quite a lot of people, though, first” in¬ 
formed his lordship. “Bad people. Frame-uppers and 
that sort. When Em older, I’m going to carry a gun 
and shoot those kind of people—like those who are try¬ 
ing to harm my mother.” 

“Sure,” remarked Mr. McGraw with halted enthusi¬ 
asm. 

“Did you ever have a gun—a real one? You know— 
an automatic that fires lots of bullets.” 

Mr. McGraw regarded his companion with a markedly 
superior air. 

“W’y, kid,” he said, “chase me, I got one o’ th’ top- 
notchest liU auto-Colts ever a man wanted to tote roun’ 
in his jeans, right in my pocket this minute.” 

“Oh! Oh, please may I see it? If you please!” 

Mr. McGraw glanced once at the glittering, excited 
eyes fastened appealingly on his, noted the lips parted in 
breathless expectation, and drew from his pocket the 
snub-nosed blue steel killer. The little hands trembled. 


THE BIG HEART 


244 


“Oh!” breathed his lordship faintly. “Oh, how won¬ 
derful!” 

“Jes’ one minnit,” said Mr. McGraw, with a cautious 
lift of his hands. “I ain’ gonna take no chance of a 
accident to your Earlery.” 

He deftly stripped the magazine of its deadly cargo 
and slipped the belt in his pocket, then passed the little 
Colt into the small hands that trembled to grasp it. 

“There y’are, bo’. Feel her—get the balance! Dead 
to a hair, an, a babby could set her blazin’. Pull her, 
bo, pull her. You be Ruby Rob an’ I’ll be one o’ them 
frame—one o’ them guys what’s gettin’ after him.” 

Quite how many times Mr. McGraw suffered complete 
and final extermination at the hands of his young lord- 
ship of Racedene would be difficult of computation; 
nearly half-an-hour had slipped by when that gentleman 
recovered his weapon, re-loaded it carefully under the 
eyes of his enchanted auditor, and recalled to his mind 
the main business upon which he had called. 

“Say, kid,” he exclaimed in dismay, “I cert’nly am 
one large-sized daffy guy! Dey’s two ladies in that 
nex’ room wuz askin’ the pleasure o’ your comp’ny, and 
I f’rgot the whole fake!” 

“Ladies!” repeated his lordship in considerable aston¬ 
ishment. “What kind of ladies?” 

Mr. McGraw gave a portentous grimace, the intention 
of which was to be wholly impressive: “The real 
double-wit’-and-dyed-in-the-wool stuff, bo,” he imparted. 
“They’s payin’ a lib visit same what you are. They 
figured it out you might be kinda lonesome, an’ c’u’d do 
witta lil’ talk now an’ again like.” 

“I should love to,” answered his lordship quickly. 
“It’s very kind of them. It is lonely at times—and— 
and you can’t be here to cheer me always ” 


HIS CHAMELEON-LIKE QUALITIES 215 


Mr. McGraw placed a hand upon the shoulder so far 
below him with a grip of complete friendliness: “That’s 
so, your Earldom,” he agreed softly, “that cert’nly is so. 
You ain’ gonna try to make a break or—or help them?” 
he questioned. “Not till your Maw is ready?” 

“I’ll give you my parole,” said the small Earl of 
Racedene proudly. 

“Your which?” inquired his gaoler, somewhat vaguely. 

“My parole,” repeated his lordship. “That is what 
a British officer gives when he’s taken prisoner—if they 
let him be free, he promises he won’t run away.” 

“Is that so?” responded Mr. McGraw, considerably 
mystified,—the whole idea savouring to him somewhat of 
the extreme of human folly. “Tie don’ do no slide 
when the chanc’t blows along?” 

“He’d sooner die than break it,” confirmed his lord- 
ship; “and so would I.” 

“ ’Nuff said,” replied Mr. McGraw solemnly. “You 
an’ me, kid, is on tha parrell.” 

He produced a key and unlocked the communicating 
door: a sudden thought seemingly penetrated his brain. 

“Jes’ one minnit,” he whispered, tapped at the door, 
and in answer to a voice stepped in and confronted his 
two fair prisoners. 

“Say,” he said in a low voice, a curious shamefaced¬ 
ness betraying itself in many little, jerks of his hands 
and head. “Say, that kiddo’s got it I bin ta see his 
Maw ’smornin’, an’—an’ brung a message. He sorta 
thinks he’s stoppin’ here ta suit her. He—he kinda 
trusts me, an’ it sure makes it easier like f’r him. Get 
me? I’m puttin’ ye wise.” 

For a moment there was a silence; then the tall girl 
with the sweet voice answered him. 

“We understand,” she replied, “and we will be very 


246 


THE BIG HEART 


careful. As you say, it makes it easier for him.’* 

“Sure thing,” said Mr. McGraw with a very noticeable 
sigh of relief. 

He opened the door. “The ladies,” he remarked, 
“will sure see your Earlship when you’se* feelin’ fit f’r 
the job.” 

His small lordship smoothed his hair carefully with 
his hands, stepped into the room, and made a little courtly 
bow. 

“It is very kind of you to ask me here,” he said with 
simple gravity. “I am the Earl of Racedene; and I 
hope you are very well.” 

Mr. McGraw noiselessly withdrew and closed the door. 
For some minutes he stood staring at the opposite wall. 

“That kid,” he murmured, “has got me wingin’! He’s 
got me beat to a frazzle!” 

A sudden sharp cry from below brought him to the 
landing in a hurry. There was an altercation; a sharp 
medley of jabbering and denouncement and shrill ex¬ 
pletive. Mr. McGraw came down the stairs noiselessly. 
Upon the fire was a large stew-pan of what invaded his 
nostrils as spaghetti. Before this, cringing in front of 
a lithe Italian who shrieked at her, was the girl Netta; 
the man, Pietro, her husband. As McGraw came into 
the room, the man, with a wicked curse, struck her a 
chopping down blow that sent the girl half-dazed to her 
knees. The crowd laughed and.continued the card game 
at the table: Pietro, with a self-satisfied grimace, twirled 
his Humberto moustache and smirked. 

Mr. McGraw advanced towards the fire with a wide, 
expansive grin. 

“Say, Pete, you don’t wanna chop down when you 
flop a lil’ bit of a kid -like that. Chop up —like this,” 
he hissed; and his mighty fist took the gallant Signor 
Pietro full on the mouth. There was a sudden death-like 


HIS CHAMELEON-LIKE QUALITIES 247 


silence. Mr. McGraw dragged the half-dazed girl clear. 
He still grinned; but in his eyes was a stony, merciless 
glare. Pietro spun, then fell; his arm caught the handle 
of the stew-pan of simmering mess as he went. It top¬ 
pled ; a man sprang to avert what was coming. McGraw 
shoved him spinning back against the wall; then the boil¬ 
ing stew-pan fell across the upturned face of Signor 
Pietro. One ghastly and awful scream came from his 
lips; then he fainted. Mr. McGraw laughed. 

“You don’ fancy your spaghetti that way, Petey,” he 
sneered. “Ain’t such a helluva joke when the tough 
stuff comes roun’ your way. My! you ain’ gonna be a 
pretty boy no more!” 

A tall, swarthy, pockmarked Neapolitan half rose from 
his chair. He had a glass in his hand; at Pietro’s scream 
it dropped from his nerveless fingers and shattered to a 
thousand pieces upon the table. 

“Whatta for you inta-da-fere ?” he hissed. Netta ees 
hees woman. What it got wit’ you?” 

McGraw laughed again. “What’s bit youse?” he 
grinned. 

“Las’ night you inta-da-fere,” screamed the pock¬ 
marked man, “wit’ dose womens!” He struck his chest 
a resounding blow. “You trya eet witta me . . 

Mr. McGraw snarled. He did not argue; twice he 
struck, then, seizing the Neapolitan by his mop of 
black hair, ground his face down into the broken glass. 
The man, screaming and mouthing inarticulately, broke 
away and ran towards a corner. His knife flashed past 
McGraw’s head and stuck quivering in the wall. Mc¬ 
Graw walked slowly across and the Neapolitan cringed 
to the floor. Without preamble the Chicagoan kicked 
him, and kicked and kicked again, until the Italian’s 
moaning ceased and he lay very stark and still. 

“If there any more o’ you stiffs what takes me for 


248 


THE BIG HEART 


the fall guy, let him step out here. You, Howarth?” 
he flashed suddenly at the half-breed, who had never 
moved his red, gleaming eyes from him since the trouble 
began. “You can have youse wit’ th’ next.” 

Slowly his glaring eyes searched every face, and each 
man as he caught them quailed. 

“Git!” he hissed. “Beat it, youse rats, before I start 
to shoot!” In five seconds he and Howarth were alone 
in the room, but for the two men who lay prone upon 
the floor, and the little Italian girl, who was trying with 
gentle hand and stifled sobs to clear the scalding mess 
from the face of the brute she loved. 

McGraw took a chair dead facing the half-breed. 

“Howarth,” he said quietly, “I ain’ heard youse speak 
this roun’?” 

“I ain’t,” replied the “breed” shortly. 

“Well, I’m goin’ to,” said Mr. McGraw, “an’ what I 
say— goes. Youse so much as look at them dames 
what’s up the stairs—or that kid—and I’ll kill ya! I’ll 
give that wife o’ yours a chanct ta fin’ somethin’ better 
than you —you red scum.” 

The half-breed leaned forward, upon his face an ex¬ 
pression not pleasant to watch. 

“Supposin’ I pull out,” he said slowly, “where ’ud you 
be ?—and Mr. the clever Alec, The Parson? and where’d 
/ be?” He paused, grinning evilly, for his answer. 

“In hell, Howarth,” came the still, icily-cold voice of 
Mr. Derrick Levigne from the door. “In hell —where 
I’ll send you.” 


CHAPTER XXI: Wherein Mr. McGraw Speaks his 
little Piece 

A STILLNESS had settled upon the room—a still¬ 
ness broken only by the moans of the scalded 
Pietro and the heavy, wheezing breath of the Neapolitan, 
who had dragged himself to the foot of the stairs, where, 
half-seated, half-sprawled, his head hanging limply upon 
his shoulder, he panted—unrecognizable for the man he 
had been but ten minutes ago. The Italians grouped 
together watched with furtive eyes the clean-shaven man 
who sat at the centre of the table. Against the wall, 
between them and the doorway by which they had been 
herded back, lounged their semi-compatriot, Frankie 
Poltaro, the gunman; his fingers deftly rolling a cigarette, 
but his eyes were quietly watchful of their faintest move¬ 
ment. He was in evil mood; and Frankie Poltaro in an 
evil mood was a dangerous man. 

For some moments now the lean, clean-shaven man 
had sat staring at them in a stony silence: since he had 
heard the story of the half-breed’s raid upon the women 
he had spoken no word at all. 

Suddenly he spoke; spitting a question at the nerveless 
Dagoes with such frigid contempt that they shrank, if 
possible, further away from him. 

“Who’s in charge of you scum of Spodani’s?’’ 

A squat, middle-aged man with a repulsive cast in his 
eyes stepped a little from the group. 

“I, signore,” he answered gruffly. 

“Where were you when this affair took place last 
night?” 


249 



250 


THE BIG HEART 


“Inna da garden. I leefa dem wit’ heem.” He 
pointed at Howarth, who rose savagely and moved 
towards the man. 

“Sit down,” Mr. Levigne ordered quietly. 

Howarth swung upon him in mouthing, drink-shaken 
rage. 

“Aw! quit that yawp, Levigne,” he bellowed. “I ain’t 
one o’ these Dagoes you can chill with the icy eye. T’hell 
you!” 

“Sit down,” repeated Levigne in the same level tone. 
“I’ll attend to you later.” 

“When I’m good an’ ready,” returned Howarth with 
a snarl. 

There was a sharp spang from Poltaro by the wall, and 
the hat flew from Howarth’s head to the floor; the bul¬ 
let struck against an oaken beam behind him. The big 
“breed” glared round, but there was in his eye the furtive 
look of a beaver in the trap. Poltaro showed his white 
teeth in an evil gleam. 

“You heard?” he questioned. 

For a second Howarth hesitated, then seated himself. 
“Get on,” he growled. “We ain’t through yet.” 

“No,” answered Mr. Levigne in his unnaturally calm 
voice, “we’re not through yet—not by a long way.” 
He turned to McGraw. “Lift that cellar trap,” he or¬ 
dered. 

McGraw went to where two great rings in the floor 
gave evidence of the existence of a great cellar, and 
tugged till one trap lifted. It had been at some time 
or other in the old house’s heydey a wine-cellar; the old 
twisted and rusted bins still lined the walls. Many, many 
years ago that had been, and the black, staring hole, dank 
and foul, had long been in disuse. It swarmed with 
rats, great black brutes that, driven in by hunger from 
the river, had found a breeding-ground there. The col- 


MR. McGRAW SPEAKS 


251 


ony had flourished: the bins, the wall and floor were mov¬ 
ing black with them; bold enough in their numbers to 
stand still and glare ravening-eyed at the man who looked 
down upon them. 

“Gese!” ejaculated Mr. McGraw, and spat with violent 
distaste. 

Mr. Levigne rose and looked down upon the black 
devil’s brood a moment: then beckoned to the bearded 
Italian. 

“I want you to take notice of them,” said Mr. Levigne 
quietly, “particular notice, for the next man of your 
gang that disobeys an order of mine will be stripped, tied 
hand and foot, and be thrown down there. You under¬ 
stand me?” 

“Si, signore stammered the man, and a shudder ran 
through his stocky frame. He and his hushed compa¬ 
triots stole noiselessly away. They had had their fill of 
the gentleman with the cold, menacing eyes; and also of 
the thick-eared one. 

“Now then,” said Levigne shortly, when they were 
alone. “You want to quit, Howarth?” 

“I ain’t standin’ for bein’ shouted at like a Sunday- 
school kid, by you nor no one. It was me brought this 
game along. If you figger you can put it over without 
me, say so—and I'll pull out and work it on my own. 
Don’t forget I got the woman an’ the kid.” 

Mr. Levigne smiled; there was a touch of derision 
in his look that stung the half-breed like a lash. 

“If I take her back,” went on Howarth with a 
snarl, “where do you stand with Haybridge, or the 
other?” 

Mr. Levigne pursed his lips: “Where is she?” he 
asked point-blank. 

“What d’ye mean?” demanded the breed. “She’s at 
that farm place.” 


252 


THE BIG HEART 


“Gone,” answered Mr. Levigne laconically. “They’ve 
got her.” 

Howarth rose, his eyes bulging. “Who’s got her?” 
he asked hoarsely. 

Levigne shrugged his shoulders. “If you want my 
opinion—the police.” 

“By God!” gasped the big man, and sat. 

“So now,” continued Mr. Levigne in his quiet voice, 
“just where do you stand? She’s taken,” he went on 
icily. “What they’ll get out of her remains to be seen.” 

“Where—where’s the kid?” uttered the breed, crouch¬ 
ing in his chair. 

“Your interesting son,” sneered the clean-shaven man, 
“is with her. Where that is—” He broke off and rose, 
pacing the room, his hands clenched behind him. 

“Accordin’ t’you this game was runnin’ dead smooth!” 
said the half-breed. He seemed dazed; stunned by the 
intelligence Levigne had handed to him. 

“It was,” said Levigne, “—until this affair at the 
Cerclc d’ltalie. Since then everything has gone wrong. 
Hammerden’s playing for time : we can’t hang out. This 
Courtenay and his friend Blakeley are on to something. 
Where did Blakeley get my name? What was Bull 
Dargan doing with him at that dance? Blakeley heard 
more than we guessed that night at Spodani’s. Some 
one is working the police—who? Not Hammerden. 
Scotland Yard is at it tooth and nail. Peter Nazimov 
was arrested last night, coming out of Spodani’s—and 
Spodani’s is as full of dicks as it will carry. Dargan 
knows Frankie over the other side—and Jerry. D’ye 
think the cables aren’t working? There’s one man we’ve 
got to move, and move quick! Blakeley. He’s our 
man, and after him this Courtenay that got foul of you. 
The job of the boy was done clean; not a soul can find 
a trace of that. The thing that worries me is where’s 



MR. McGRAW SPEAKS 


253 


our Lady Racedene and the kid? In my opinion Blake¬ 
ley’s got them.” 

“We’ll get him tonight,” said Mr. Poltaro; “they may 
be hid in this place he lives.” 

“I know his club,” answered Levigne. “We’ll have to 
shadow from there. We don’t know what traps are 
set at his rooms. We’ll get back to Town tonight by 
different ways. Jerry, you’ll have to pick Blakeley up. 
He’s only seen you once, and there’s just a chance that 
he may not recognize you. I must know what Dargan’s 
doing, and I must find the woman and the boy. Get 
some other clothes, Jerry, something dark—not notice¬ 
able.” 

Mr. McGraw nodded slowly and thoughtfully. For 
the first time in this game he found no enthusiasm for 
his job. Strange thoughts kept tumbling through his 
troubled mind; curiously enough, uppermost came the 
recollection of the Kiddo’s Uncle Bill. Somehow it got 
McGraw wrong to go out and stalk this man down for 
Poltaro’s deadly gun to finish in some dark corner. 
There was no fighting chance to it; and Uncle Bill was 
sure a fighter—greatest ever, so the Kiddo said. Seemed 
a dog’s way to put down a good feller—the kid’s Uncle 
Bill! Couldn’t never see the kid no more—couldn’t face 
him. That little upbraiding voice calling him down 
couldn’t be stilled in his ears. He’d be figurin’ on his 
friend Jerry standin’ up with Uncle Bill; ’stead of which 
—Mr. McGraw shook his head, and these gloomy 
thoughts out of it as well as he could, and rose. He 
moved towards the stairs slowly, then stopped, and faced 
round. 

“Wanna know what I think to it?” he inquired sud¬ 
denly. “I figger the quicker we load that kid up and 
drop him inside his own front gate, the better we dodge 
trouble. Th’ whole dam shoot’s gone on th’ blink sinc’t 


254 


THE BIG HEART 


we snapped him. They ain’ no luck to it! That’s my 
think, and I’m game ta bet on it.” 

“Give up the strongest card we’ve got?’’ jeered Mr. 
Levigne. 

“I ain’t so sure what he ain’t the trump card f’r them 
guys,” warned Mr. McGraw. “You don’ hgger this 
Blakeley man what’s his uncle is gonna sit roun’ loafin’ 
while we got him? An’ some more,” went on Mr. Mc¬ 
Graw, warming to his argument, “how da we know them 
guys, him an’ Courtenay, ain’ these dames’ fellers—dere 
steadies? By heck, if that’s how it goes, them goofs 
is sure stickin’ on our line till they got us in th’ corner? 
Whadda y’know to that?” 

“If we stiff this Blakeley—” began Howarth. 

“You shut your face outta this chirp,” rejoined Mc¬ 
Graw fiercely. “It’s you what put us on th’ toboggan at 
th’ start. You take it from me, if dese cops here gets 
it on me, I’ll see you get yours for sure!” 

“Stop that!” said Levigne quickly. 

“Stop nuttin’,” answered Mr. McGraw determinedly, 
and with tremendous flair. “Youse got it pat what I 
got nuttin unda my hair but bone! Can it! I ain’t 
no high-brow, but it don’ wanna Solomon ta see we’re 
on th’ bum! You starts in on a big con game: what’s 
gonna make a rich Alec cough quick; you get a secon’ 
hunch on Jake Schornhurst, what’s got more dollars’n 
what I *got pores in me hide! Two rich guys and a 
strong game! Dis odder wife stunt what he brung in 
was a chanc’t. We could slide ’im under if it fell down. 
Whadda we gotta do now? Stiff a guy; and he ain’ 
gonna be th’ las’ . . . No, sir! On th’ odder game, 
if we got pinched it was wuxtrydishun, an’ back to lil’ 
ol’ Noo York, where we gotta pull. When Frankie 
croaks this Bill man, they ain’ gonna be no wuxtrydishun. 


MR. McGRAW SPEAKS 


255 


We’re gonna get it here; where they’s uncivilized per¬ 
sons what hangs you onna rope like a Wil’ Wes’ lynch 
picnic. That’s what’s cornin’ to us what does it—a 
rope!’’ 

“You leave that to me,” snarled Levigne. “I don’t 
want any advice from you. I’ve told you before, think¬ 
ing is no game of yours.” 

“Mebbe so—an’ mebbe no,” answered Mr. McGraw 
imperturbably; “but up ta now your thinkin’ ain’t takin’ 
us no place. Now youse framin’ up a murder job—f’r 
me an’ him ta do. Him an’ me puts in the little ol’ hemp 
shuffle if it goes on the blink. What kinda tall thinkin’ 
you gonna do then? I ain’ no four-flusher, but I bet 
your thinkin’s gonna stop round the ‘where do I hike 
me?’ point. You ain’ blowin’ out in tha fresh air 
t’spiel what you sent us to croak the guy! You’re 
floatin’ f’r th’ tall grass wit’ the wind singin’ in your 
ears, you’re goin’ so quick.” 

“Supposin’ we pull it off good?” broke in Poltaro, 
who had been listening keenly to McGraw’s peroration. 
There were points in it that had not escaped his atten¬ 
tion. McGraw was sure speakin’ from the heart. 

“Supposin’!” answered McGraw, contemptuously la¬ 
conic. “An’ then up goes th’ placards with a big reward 
for them what done it. This ain’ Noo York—a gun- 
panging gives these gumps the pip-pip of th’ heart. 
Well, they’s a mystery shoot up—the Hon. Bill Blakeley 
goes cold wit’out ad-visin’ he’s fr’nds he’s sick.” Mr. 
McGraw leant steadily towards Poltaro and looked him 
square in the face. “How long before some o’ them 
guineas of Spodani’s sings their little note an’ grabs at 
th’ reward mazuma? Will they put it on him?” he de¬ 
manded, pointing at Levigne, who was regarding him 
with a stony-faced thoughtfulness. “Not on your life! 




256 


THE BIG HEART 


You and me’s the suckers every time. Stan’ on me 
it’ll be youse for tha hemp. The Parson won’ be roun’ 
when it’s chokin’ ya!” 

Mr. Levigne started; perhaps it was the look of in¬ 
decision that passed over the gunman’s scowling face 
that galvanized him into action; perhaps, again, the fact 
that whatever his congenital mental powers, the rough¬ 
neck McGraw was undoubtedly emitting great, if un¬ 
palatable, truths. If Mr. Levigne was to maintain 
unquestioned authority, now was the time to act. Be¬ 
sides, there was something behind McGraw’s attitude 
that at present he could not fathom. 

“See here,” he said quietly, “I admit at once that 
there is something to what you say, but not much. The 
great point is what way I take out of the difficulty— 
not you. Am I the boss here—or do you propose to 
take it over?” 

“If I done what I wanted, Parson,” returned Mr. Mc¬ 
Graw with equal steadiness, “I’d beat it outta this game 
on th’ hop an’ lay low. So f’r as your bein’ the boss 
goes, you stand main guy over this pack on’y because 
Frankie an’ me is standin’ by wit’ guns in our pockets. 
You’re boss just because it’s yours for plannin’ an’ 
thinkin’. Well, it’s up to you to deliver th’ goods. You 
ain’ forgettin’ youse so far ain’t put your neck in line for 
that hemp. So far as any odder way goes, put you an’ 
any o’ dese Blakeley an’ Courtenay ginks inta one room 
wit’ y’r raw han’s, where’d you stand?” 

“Well, where would I stand?” inquired Mr. Levigne 
coldly. 

“You’d be th’ guy at the fun’ral what lays jes’ behind 
the hosses,” answered Mr. McGraw meaningly. 

“I think,” said Mr. Levigne, smiling his little icy 
smile, “that your trouble is a slight touch of cold feet!” 


MR. McGRAW SPEAKS 


257 


Mr. McGraw’s jaw snapped: he lounged across and 
looked his leader straight in the eye. 

“Say,” he said with a dry twist in his voice. “Youse 
ever seen me git col’ feet when they was trouble roun’ ?” 

“No,” replied Mr. Levigne, meeting his look with one 
just as steady and unblinking. “I can’t say that I have 
—up to now.” 

“Well, don’t you get bettin’ on it,” advised Mr. Mc- 
Graw. “It’s a losin’ bet; what ya might call—dan- 
g’rous.” 

“Is that so?” smiled Mr. Levigne lightly. 

“The mos’ sure thing what ever you seen,” answered 
Mr. McGraw. He turned away to the staircase. “I’m 
gonna change my clo’es,” he announced. “They’s on’y 
one thing I gotta say. If this guy Blakeley is croaked, 
I reckon it’s up to you ta do it—then we got some notion 
jus’ how far you stan’ in wit us. What’s your idea, 
Frank?” 

Mr. Poltaro took an extremely searching look at each 
of the parties to the argument; then, as if it had suddenly 
dawned upon him that here was the whole point and 
gist of Mr. McGraw’s mysterious discourse, he drew a 
deep, satisfying breath. Up to the present the Parson 
had sat nicely away in some little dark alcove, pulling 
the wires, sending others to do the work as it formulated 
in his brain. Mr. Poltaro suddenly smiled and bowed 
his acquiescence. 

“Sure thing,” he said pleasantly. “Sure! Your turn 
next,” he said to Levigne. “You croak dis guy.” 

Mr. Levigne nodded; from his attitude it seemed a 
matter of the most profound indifference. 

“Right,” he said carelessly. “If that’s all, it’s easily 
settled. But mark my words,” he added in frigid, cut¬ 
ting tones, “you will regret it—both of you.” 


258 


THE BIG HEART 


“Then we’ll all be regrettin’ in a bunch,” commented 
Mr. McGraw, “an’ that’s how I reckon it oughta go.” 
He went up a couple of steps towards the landing, then 
again, as if in obedience to a sudden dictate, swung 
round and again faced Levigne. He pointed at Ho- 
warth. 

“Is that dub gonna stop here t’night?” he asked 
shortly. 

“Yes,” answered the clean-shaven man. “He’s got 
to watch these Italians. I don’t trust them.” 

Mr. McGraw came a step lower down. 

“An’ who’s gonna watch him?” he demanded, with 
narrowing eyes. “It was him what got inter them 
dames’ room las’ night. One of ’em he clawed a holt 
of. What’s doin’?” 

“Leave that to me,” answered Levigne, turning his 
cold eyes upon the half-breed. “I don’t think he’ll go 
there again.” 

“If he’s bin near them dames’ door when I get back 
here I’ll gun him straight out; an’ . . . an’ you interfere, 
an’ I’ll stiff youse wit’ him.” With which outspoken 
threat, Mr. McGraw went up the stairs two at a time, 
whistling. Mr. Poltaro eyed his chief narrowly; his 
look suggested that he was giving the utterances of his 
obstreperous comrade careful consideration. 

He gave a glance and a nod in the direction of the 
staircase: “Seems lika Jerry’s got things mapped,” he 
remarked lazily. 

Levigne moved closer to the gunman: “I can’t under¬ 
stand him. There’s no chance,” he began slowly, “of— 
of any one having got at him?” 

Poltaro shook his head. “No one’s goin’ t’try—an’ 
get away wit’ it alive from Jerry.” 

“I don’t altogether trust him.” 

Mr. Poltaro showed* *his very white teeth. “That’s 


MR. McGRAW SPEAKS 


259 


what’s wrong wit’a heem,” he answered. “He don’ trust 
you.” 

Upstairs Mr. McGraw changed into a dark suit rap¬ 
idly ; and although his whistle continued merrily enough 
—his eyes were clouded in thought. Below he could 
hear the snapping, menacing voice of the Parson; and 
the hoarse grumble of the half-breed in reply told him 
that there was an interchange of opinion going on that 
was likely to spell trouble—for some one. 

Dressed, the gunman stepped to the landing, and 
swiftly and with professional noiselessnes turned the key 
in the door that incarcerated the little Earl of Racedene. 
He found that he had returned to his own apartment, 
and was deep again in the romance of the intrepid Ruby 
Rob the Road Agent. 

With a quick finger to his lip to enjoin silence, Mc¬ 
Graw listened for a moment to the voices now raised 
in bitter altercation and recrimination below; then slipped 
into the room and crossed to the divan. He jerked the 
blue snub-nosed gun from his pocket, unloaded her, and 
again put his small lordship through a hurried catechism 
as tu her satisfactory working. 

“Lock th’ safety,” he ordered sharply. “Now unlock 
her.” 

The Earl obeyed these orders with commendable 
rapidity, but with complete wonderment in his eyes as to 
the sharpness and fervidity of his friend’s tone. 

“You’ll do,” whispered Mr. McGraw, then carefully 
reloaded the little weapon. “Listen you, Kid,” he went 
on, “an’ listen good. I gotta go up Town t’night. I’m 
leavin’ you ta p’tect them ladies while I’m gone. They 
maybe no trouble—but agen they may. You’re gonna 
stan’ by ’em wit’ this. I’m gonna put her under ya piller, 
an’ leave that door unlocked witta key to your side. 
Th’ secon’ you hear any one to their door, git her out, 



260 


THE BIG HEART 


boy, an’ go t’ work. Now, whadda y’do?” demanded 
Mr. McGraw feverishly. 

“I balance the gun on my hip and walk towards them,” 
answered the Earl of Racedene solemnly. “I fire into 
their body until they fall—then wait.” 

“Not more’n t’ree shots in case they’s a bunch,” ad¬ 
monished McGraw anxiously. 

“Not more,” assured his lordship; “except they try to 
pull theirs—then I set her alight.” 

“Good kid,” said Mr. McGraw, patting him on the 
shoulder. “Good kid! An’ you ain’ skeered?” 

“Me!” said his lordship indignantly. “Cert’nly not! 
If they touch the ladies, I don’t care how many I kill.” 

“I’ll put it uder ya piller,” whispered Mr. McGraw, 
suiting the action to the word. “Say, 'Honest to Gawd, 
I won’ touch it ’ceptin’ they’s trouble.’ Gimme that 
parrel o’ yours.” 

“I give you my word of honour,” exclaimed his lord- 
ship haughtily. 

“Kid,” replied Mr. McGraw, “that goes. Shake!” 

They shook hands solemnly and Mr. McGraw slipped 
from the room. As he passed he tried a heavy hand 
upon the door of the ladies’ room; it held firm and* solid, 
and he breathed a relieved sigh. 

“Gonna take some breakin’ down,” he muttered. 

In the downstairs kitchen he found them waiting, 
Levigne and Poltaro. Squatting in a chair, glaring 
morosely at the fire, was the big breed, a look of demoniac 
rage and hatred upon his face. But he was silent. 
Whatever argument Levigne had used, whatever threats, 
they had sufficed to cow him. But the short grunting 
breath of the man spoke volumes of what was lying be¬ 
hind his baleful eyes. 

Mr. McGraw eyed him, then turned to Levigne, point¬ 
ing to the stairway. 


MR. McGRAW SPEAKS 


261 


“Does he unnastan’ about up there ?” he demanded. 

“He understands that if he molests those women to¬ 
night he’ll be killed/’ answered the clean-shaven man, 
with a meticulous precision that marked every syllable. 

“He unnastood that fr’m me,” retorted Mr. McGraw, 
with equally precise diction. “An’ you, Levigne. Don’t 
forgit it—an’ you!” 

To which Mr. Levigne found no convenient or politic 
answer. 


CHAPTER XXII: Honours Even 


* 6 TRAPPY/* said the Honourable Bill, “I don’t know 

JL what you feel like, but Eve got the most ghastly 
hump that ever a man carried about with him.” 

“Same here,” responded Mr. Courtenay. “I feel as 
if some one had tipped a load of bricks over me and 
left me to enjoy them. ’Twas this afternoon at Sunbury 
that did it.” 

“Pm desperate,” snarled Mr. Blakeley. “My God, 
if we don’t get some wind of them soon I’ll—I’ll be a 
raving madman! I’ll do some one in, I know I shall.” 

“The thing grows worse,” sighed Mr. Courtenay. 
“This infernal villain is too cunning—too clever for us, 
and that’s the truth,” he admitted with a sigh. 

“He’s given Hammerden until tomorrow night to meet 
his demands—he and Schornhurst. What’s to happen 
then to them ... ?” The Honourable Bill broke off 
with a jerk and ground his teeth savagely. 

“Mr. Schornhurst’s offered Dobson an enormous re¬ 
ward,” said Paddy, “but I doubt me if ’twill help matters. 
If we could only get a word out of that cursed woman 
at Heggit’s!” 

“She’s altogether hopeless.” 

“Me dear man,” said Mr. Courtenay wearily, “only 
last night did I jaw at her until my tongue stuck to 
the roof of my mouth. I tried everything;—and I might 
just as well have been jawing at the wall; or that darn’d 
grinning red imp she calls the Earl of Racedene.” 

“When I think of the little chap—Eric, I mean,” 
groaned the Honourable Bill, “I’m—I’m not fit to be at 
large.” 


262 




HONOURS EVEN 


263 


“When I think of Penelope,” began Mr. Courtenay, 
then stopped. He stood stock-still in the street and con¬ 
fronted his brother in misfortune in despairing appeal. 

“Is there,” he demanded poignantly, “is there nothing 
we can find to do? Another day of this and I’ll be a 
ravin’ lunatic!” 

In this frame of mind, at seven o’clock of the evening, 
after an afternoon that could be by no means considered 
delirious with joy, the two bereaved gentlemen moodily 
betook themselves towards the Coal Hole in the Strand, 
there to keep assignation with Major Galbraith, who had 
named that place upon reflection as being the most un¬ 
likely one to be observed or overheard in that, at the 
moment, he could call to mind. 

It had, indeed, been a cheerless afternoon down at the 
house at Sunbury—an afternoon without one cheering 
ray to lighten it. John Hammerden, his face set hard, 
bordered on a savage moroseness that fed upon his help¬ 
less inactivity; and was rendered doubly poignant by the 
blank reports of his lieutenants. That the man was 
suffering terribly needed no second glance at his anxious 
face to elicit—in addition to his own gnawing care 
the thought that from him emanated the cause of his old 
friend’s pitiable anguish weighed heavily upon him. 

And, indeed, Jacob J. seemed never to have recovered 
the shock of his beloved Ronny’s disappearance. That 
had been a blow that had wounded the little man in his 
tenderest and most vital spot. His one ewe lamb, the 
beloved child of his heart! And he, with his untold 
wealth, with all the resources of civilization at his back, 
powerless to help her! It drove him to a pitch of nerv¬ 
ous frenzy that threatened to place him where it had 
already deposited his stricken Mad’leen—upon a bed of 
sickness. 

Yet in all his misery the little man had offered no 



264 


THE BIG HEART 


word of reproach to his friend; behind him he stood as 
adamant as one of the pillars of his own mansion on 
Fifth. Reason told him that here was no fault of Ham- 
merden’s. 

Curiously enough, the one thing in which he found his 
greatest consolation—and in a dumb, negative sort of 
fashion, hope—was in the companionship and sympathy 
of the dog Old Punch; who was soon—albeit a trifle un¬ 
steadily—upon his feet; and had responded in an extraor¬ 
dinary way for one so undemonstrative to the never- 
ceasing care and attention the grateful little magnate had 
lavished upon him. 

From the moment of the dog’s embedment in the 
bright, roomy loose box that had been utilized as his 
hospital, Mr. Schornhurst had never left him. The 
douceur he had promised the worthy veterinarian, should 
complete success crown his efforts, made that gentleman 
stare in amazement; though be it said in his honour that 
he needed no inducement to alleviate the pain of an ani¬ 
mal in suffering. Especially so gallant an animal as this 
scarred and beaten old canine vagabond had proved him¬ 
self, by gage of bloody battle, to be. 

There Mr. Jacob J. Schornhurst, whose very word over 
a ’phone could panic Wall Street like a hen with a stoat 
among her chickens, sat for hour after hour; gazing with 
passionate anxiety upon this noble creature who had 
fought unto the threshold of death for his beloved child. 

During that first evening, when the soul of the dog 
had hovered between life and his crowning glory, had 
Paddy and the little Jacob J. sat in almost breathless 
anxiety; watching the great gaunt ribs lift and fall, oh, 
so heavily, and the little flecks of white come and go 
upon the torn and mangled lips. They spoke only in the 
veriest whispers, that even the sound of a loved voice 
might not disturb in the great fight old Mother Nature 


HONOURS EVEN 


265 


was waging with callous Death. Once, after a long, 
shuddering moan from the big, stained body, Paddy 
turned with a broken gesture to find the tears trickling 
from underneath the tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses of the 
little man: his own, he knew, were coursing freely down 
his face; knew, and cared naught who knew as well. 
Then, after an interminable, long-drawn age of waiting, 
a quiet sigh, a feeble shifting of the great head into com¬ 
fort—and sleep. Mother Nature had won her battle. 

So that the afternoon in this painful atmosphere— 
added to the ghastly sense of futile effort and hopeless 
failure which had so far crowned their unwearying ef¬ 
forts, rendered these two usually indomitable gentlemen, 
Mr. Patrick Courtenay and the Honourable Mr. William 
Blakeley, really quite unfit for the company of anything 
but their own dismal and nebulous thoughts; and, in¬ 
deed, a very few of those went an extremely long way, 
under the circumstances. 

In St. Martin’s Lane, Mr. Blakeley did give vent to 
one utterance. It was of a prophetic nature; and had 
reference to what he proposed to do to those bloodthirsty 
miscreants should one hair of the joint and several heads 
of the absent ones have been even disarranged. He ut¬ 
tered his threat with such sudden insensate fury of dic¬ 
tion, accompanied by demoniac distortions of his features, 
that an old lady emerging with milky lips from Robb’s 
Bun Shop, retraced her steps hurriedly, and refused to 
venture forth until he was well out of sight. She had 
read of those dreadful Bolsheviks, she explained to the 
young lady at the counter, and had no wish to become 
an innocent martyr to their fury. 

Mr. Courtenay, whilst entirely concurring with the 
remarks of the Honourable Bill, discreetly kept his con¬ 
tribution to himself. 

“Damn the swine!” hissed the Honourable William. 


266 


THE BIG HEART 


“Why the devil don’t you say something?” he demanded 
suddenly of Mr. Courtenay as they proceeded past the 
Charing Cross Hospital. “What are you moping along 
without a—a word to your name?” 

“What’s the good of it?” responded Paddy with in¬ 
tense gloom. “Talk’ll not do anything.” 

“No,” sighed Mr. Blakeley; “ but it sounds deedy, and 
even that’s a blinkin’ relief.” 

Which goes to show that the nerves of the Honourable 
Mr. Blakeley were very much on the raw; and that if 
something were not to happen soon—well, something else 
would, and that was all about it. 

“Now where the deuce,” said Mr. Joseph Dobson, look¬ 
ing down from the window adjacent to Mr. Dargan’s 
bed, what time that gentleman was, with some assistance 
and a good deal of argument from the House Surgeon 
upon the point of his sudden departure, getting into his 
clothes, “are those two off to—and what’s their little 
game, I wonder?” 

Mr. Dargan peered through the window, following the 
direction of Mr. Dobson’s pointing finger. 

“Ah,” said he. “My old pal, Bill. Who’s the other ?” 

“That,” said Mr. Dobson, “is Paddy.—Captain Patrick 
Courtenay; the gentleman who kidnapped the lady from 
Arizona.” 

“Is it?” said Mr. Dargan. 

Mr. Dobson viewed his friend’s robing with doubtful 
perturbation. “You’re quite sure you feel up to this 
jaunt? It will keep, you know.” 

“Ain’t so sure that it will,” answered Mr. Dargan. 
“I’ve got an idea you’ll want me where you’re going; 
anyhow, if I don’t beat it out of here, I’ll go bug-house — 
so now y’know! I’m not built of stop-a-bed stuff, an’ 
that’s a fact.” 

To which Mr. Dobson shrugged his shoulders without 



HONOURS EVEN 


267 


reply. Argument with Mr. Dargan, once that gentleman 
had made up his mind, was a hopeless business. 

In the hostelry Messrs. Courtenay and Blakeley found 
the gallant Major awaiting them. The first uplift of 
greetings over, old ‘'Gal” appeared to be labouring under 
the same load of depression as his coadjutors in this in¬ 
triguing and nerve-racking affair. 

“A damnable business,” said the Major, “a damnable 
business altogether. I was chowing things over with my 
little woman only this morning; but she couldn’t throw 
light anywhere. Unlike her; generally finds some point 
of elucidation somewhere; but in this case nothing. 
They’re smart; not a doubt of it; damned smart—they’ve 
covered their tracks beautifully. We’ve got to admit it.” 

Mr. Courtenay sighed. 

“Yes,” he replied, “they’ve done that right enough— 
curse them. Where have Jimmy Carrington and B.-C. 
got to?” 

“They’re out making a systematic round of the tenth- 
rate dance-hells, in the hope of running across something 
of use. That Dobson chap done anything?” 

“I don’t think he’s the least likely to let us know what 
he’s up to. Fearfully stolid sort. I’d sooner back that 
American feller’s chances, if he were with us—far more 
my idea. I really ought to look him up while I’m this 
way. Only I’m so blinkin’ afraid of his pumpin’ me.” 
The Honourable Bill looked round, dubiously questioning. 

“Just so, just so,” replied the Major corroboratively. 
“Can’t be too careful. It’s a serious job this to—to con¬ 
fer with an American policeman on.” 

“Yes,” answered the Honourable Bill, “it is; and I 
don’t think that if Mr. Dargan got really going after a 
man he’d be easily dragged off. I shouldn’t like to 
think of him on John Hammerden’s trail—even though 
we all know him to be innocent.” 


- 


268 


THE BIG HEART 


“I’d give something to know he was on the other fel¬ 
low’s,” put in Patrick wearily. “The real murderer—my 
pal, the half-breed gorilla.” 

“Well, now, for all we know, he may be,” commented 
the Major consolingly. 

“What the deuce d’ye mean by that, Gal?” demanded 
Mr. Blakeley testily. “I’ll swear he didn’t expect to meet 
Poltaro that night. Why should he connect him with 
Howarth ?” 

The Major started. “I—I really don’t know what 
made me say that, Bill,” he answered apologetically. 
“Sort of connected them all together—as we know they 
are,—and supposed he did. Spoke, really, without think¬ 
ing, I s’pose. Though now that he is after this Poltaro 
man—I don’t see why he shouldn’t run up against the 
lot. I think there’s a great chance—and a good one for 
us.” 

“I wish to the Lord,” asseverated Mr. Courtenay sol¬ 
emnly, “that we could get on to something.” 

“Now do you know,” said the Major stoutly, “I’ve a 
very big idea that, despite these chaps’ cleverness and 
their professional acumen and—and all that—that we’ll 
get in touch first. I feel sure of it—my missus does too.” 

“Does she?” answered the Honourable Bill with weary 
and unwonted sarcasm. “I hope she’s right. What do 
the kids think?” 

The Major flushed. 

“My dear Bill,” he said quietly, “I know what’s the 
matter with you—you’re hipped. We’ve not done what 
we hoped to do—and you’re down. So’s Paddy—looks 
like a lame dog at a funeral. It’s damned hard on you 
boys—damned hard. I know if anything like that hap- 
pend to my—” He broke off and shook his head por¬ 
tentously. “I’ll bet you’ve eaten nothing since lunch— 




HONOURS EVEN 


269 


possibly oreakfast. I vote we go along to Simpson’s and 
chew three rattling good steaks and some beer.” 

“I m on,” responded Patrick. “I’ve had nothing since 
my breakfast.” 

“Nor me,” admitted Mr. Blakeley. “Perhaps that’s 
what’s the matter with me, Gal; I’ll feel more like things 
when I’ve eaten.” 

“Must eat, dear boy,” assured the Major hurriedly; 
“must eat—man’s no bally good on an empty stomach. 
Three aperitifs, and then we’ll toddle.” 

Outside the restaurant chosen stood a long and elegant 
limousine car. It was decorated in a soft fawn colour 
and looked the very last word in vehicular luxury. 

“Nice car,” remarked the Major as they entered. 
“Beautiful thing—Rolls-Royce, isn’t it?” 

The Honourable Mr. Blakeley turned and surveyed the 
magnificent limousine sourly. 

“Yes,” he answered; “and had it been blue I’d have 
wrecked the damn thing, if I’d got six months for it. 
Come on.” 

The repast was at an end. The steaks had been done 
to a turn; and the three despondent gentlemen felt in¬ 
finitely better for the consumption of them. The draught 
Bass, as the Major tritely remarked, reminded one of old 
times. Three Corona Coronas, and the temperamental 
barometer of the trio rose rapidly to as near set fair as 
was to be expected under the cii cumstances. Mr. Blake¬ 
ley leaned his back against the old-fashioned chop-house 
pew wherein the three were dining, and blew forth a great 
gust of smoke—the first he had so emitted with any de¬ 
gree of pleasure for days. Mr. Courtenay following suit 
with every appearance of lethargic satisfaction, the Major 
felt him timely suggestion of steak and beer to have been 
one of those happy inspirations sometimes vouchsafed to 


270 


THE BIG HEART 


men of limited mentality. It was perhaps some indica¬ 
tion that things were about to take a brighter turn. 

A stout, comfortably-bodied gentleman of roseate 
countenance arrived, and settled himself in the vacant seat 
at the end of the pew. He had selected his viands, opened 
his Standard and perused it. 

Without the slightest warning, the Honourable Bill 
reached across the table, grabbed the paper from the hands 
of the comfortable gentleman, and buried his head com¬ 
pletely in its pages. Upon the same instant Mr. Courte¬ 
nay dropped his matches, and dived out of sight under the 
table after them. Major Galbraith, after a sudden 
startled look in their direction, turned to watch the slow 
progress along the room of a clean-shaven gentleman in 
clerical grey. Instinctively the Major knew; then his 
eyes flashed elsewhere. 

“What the devil d’ye mean, sir!” hissed the comfort¬ 
able gentlemen, after he had recovered his wits. “What’s 
the matter with him?” he demanded of the Major. 
“Drunk or—mad?” 

“Ssh!” whispered the Major sadly. “Shell shock! It 
often takes him like this, but he’s generally more violent. 
It’s one of his bad days, I fear; but I'll get him out as 
quietly as I can. Perhaps I can manage without his 
maiming any one.” 

“Eh?” ejaculated the comfortable gentleman. “Eh, 
what’s that? Poor chap! Very pitiful! Maiming! 
Good God !” He rose hurriedly, and catching his waiter’s 
eye, fled with a hasty “Good evening,” to another cubicle. 

The clean-shaven man continued upon his course 
towards them. Mr. Blakeley joined his friend under the 
table. 

“Are all these seats taken?” he inquired of Major Gal¬ 
braith. 

“Yes, yes,” answered the Major hurriedly. “My friend 



HONOURS EVEN 


271 


will be back in one moment, and there are two others to 
come.” 

“Sorry,” remarked the clean-shaven gentleman with 
unctuously laconic drawl, and passed on. 

“Right,”- whispered the Major, when safety was as¬ 
sured and the clean-shaven gentleman settled. 

The heads of Messrs. Courtenay and the Honourable 
Mr. Blakeley appeared once more above the table. 

“By Gad!” he ejaculated Mr. Blakeley in an astounded 
whisper. “Him!” 

“Ye’re sure?” questioned Paddy eagerly. 

“Who is it?” asked the Major. 

“Him,” repeated the Honourable Mr. Blakeley. “The 
head of them all.” 

“I knew,” said Major Galbraith triumphantly, “that 
things were on the turn. I could feel it! Now then,” 
he went on quickly, “he’s got to be stuck to like a leech. 
This is my job.” 

“Yes,” answered Paddy thoughtfully, “ ’twill be best 
for you. He can’t possibly know or suspect you.” 

“Get a taxi outside,” suggested the Honourable Bill, 
“and take it to the opposite side of the street. You can 
sit back in it free from observation, and you’ve got him 
whichever way he turns. Don’t lose him, for God’s 
sake! It’s the one chance we’ve got.” 

“Wherever he finishes will be the place they're hidden 
—a thousand to one,” said Paddy. 

“I’ll not lose him,” assured the Major earnestly; “trust 
me.” 

“Have ye a gun on ye?” whispered Courtenay. 

“No,” said the Major. “Have you?” 

Mr. Courtenay passed under the table a small Webley, 
following it with a box of cartridges. 

“Good,” breathed the Major. “Now I’m prepared for 
whatever comes up.” 


272 


THE BIG HEART 


“Be on your guard,” warned the Honourable Bill. 
“Don’t forget what happened to old Bowes-Chev. He’s 
as cunning as a rattlesnake, this blighter.” 

The Major grinned. 

“I’m not altogether a dud myself—if it comes to guer¬ 
illa work,” he replied. “You’ll hear from me tonight at 
your place,” he continued; “if too late tonight, tomorrow 
morning, where?” 

“I’ll wait at the Club after ten o’clock,” answered the 
Honourable Bill. 

“Right ho!” assented the Major. “Tonight your place 
—tomorrow, the Club.” 

“I’ll get on the ’phone to Sunbury,” said Paddy. 
“ ’Twill perhaps give them ease of mind to know we’ve 
got hold of something at last.” 

“Sure of it,” said the Major. “Depend upon'me to do 
my best.” 

“I’ll run a special messenger out to your wife,” said 
the Honourable Bill. “Just to say you’re on 'active' and 
will perhaps not be home.” 

“If you would,” responded the Major earnestly, “I’d be 
grateful to you. It'll save her some anxiety. I’ll be off 
now.” 

“Stick to him!” whispered the Honourable Bill anx¬ 
iously. “Stick to him, Gal. Don’t let him double on 
you.” 

“We’re in your hands now, Major,” said Paddy. 

“Right,” said the Major grimly, and departed. 

Ten minutes later he was followed leisurely by his two 
friends; and in a cubicle lower down a clean-shaven gen¬ 
tleman in clerical grey smiled quietly after them; but in 
the relaxation of his face there was nothing of pleasure— 
nothing but an expression of the most ironic contempt. 

At the outer step they paused a moment, surveying the 


HONOURS EVEN 


273 


street. The splendid Rolls-Royce still stood by the kerb; 
its chauffeur bent over the bonnet, tinkering at the head¬ 
light. Across the road a taxi was drawn up; and, in 
crossing, Mr. Blakeley lifted his stick to some invisible 
person in subtle salute; a salute answered by the wave of 
a hand through the window. The foreign-looking chauf¬ 
feur of the Rolls-Royce looked after Mr. Blakeley and his 
companion with a curiously puzzled expression, then in a 
glance caught the waiting taxi-cab: he took up a position 
by the door of the big limousine and waited, smiling 
pleasantly. 

Very slowly the big car moved away along the Strand, 
turning in at the Admiralty Arch and making steadily 
for Hyde Park Corner. The evening had closed in and 
become quite dark now; sufficiently so for the Major 
to keep fairly close to his quarry without making it in 
any way noticeable. Along the Park it continued at a 
slow and dignified pace, at one of the gates, stopped; 
the clean-shaven man alighted, spoke to the chauffeur, and 
in a great hurry disappeared through the gate from sight. 

In a moment the Major was after him; and as he 
passed from sight the chauffeur speedily followed. Pass¬ 
ing a clump of trees Galbraith spotted his man, and 
stealthily moved in his direction. Then, passing a second 
clump which cast wide their black shadow, something 
descended upon his skull. With a wild clutching at a 
menacing grey figure over him, he sank to his knees; there 
came a second thud, and he sprawled prone; helpless and 
unconscious at the grey man’s feet. 

“Pick him up, Domenico,” whispered Levigne, “and 
get him into the car. I’m not chancing this one as I did 
the last.” 

At the gate they met a policeman who eyed them and 
their burden with professional curiosity. 


274 


THE BIG HEART 


“Lend a hand, officer, to get my friend into my car,” 
begged Mr. Levigne, slipping five shillings into the man’s 
hand. “Poor fellow! I’m afraid he’s had a stroke.” 

“Hurt his head, by the look of it, sir,” said the con¬ 
stable, assisting the limp figure of the Major into the big 
fawn car. 

“I’m afraid so, I’m afraid so,” answered the clerical¬ 
looking Mr. Levigne. “Drugs,” he 'whispered. “An 
aftermath of the war, officer,—a terrible thing. Poor 
fellow; poor fellow! It’s very sad.” 

“Ah, there’s a lot of ’em at that game now,” answered 
the constable, with a shake of his head. “Relation of 
yours, sir?” 

“My brother,” said Mr. Levigne mournfully. “I’m 
very fond of him.” 

The foreign-looking chauffeur went and regulated mat¬ 
ters with the driver of the taxi—with a munificence that 
caused that gentleman to stare. Whatever doubt he might 
have had as to the bona fides of the story told him, they 
were at once dispelled. He turned his cab and departed. 

Circuitously, Mr. Levigne reached the East End. At 
a public house in Aldgate he telephoned; then drove along 
through Commercial to the Barking Road. At a quiet 
turning near the Barking Flats he waited until another 
taxi, containing Mr. McGraw, overtook him; then the 
order was for Tilbury direct, and, for the first time that 
evening, the big car showed her pace. LTpon the floor, 
bound hand and foot, and gagged, lay the unfortunate 
Major Galbraith. He was having his first personal ex¬ 
perience of Mr. Derrick H. Levigne and his methods. 
He could not be said to be appreciating them. 

The gates of the solitary old house opened for them 
to the excited jabber of a couple of Italians. Apparently 
something was wrong. As the car pulled up at the door, 
a shot rang through the still night. McGraw, white to 


HONOURS EVEN 


275 


the lips, with an oath rushed through the house, and made 
for the staircase; Levigne hard at his heels. 

Upon the landing, writhing, with a shot through his 
neck, lay the huge half-breed, Howarth. In the doorway, 
in his pyjamas, a smoking revolver in his hand, stood the 
small Earl of Racedene. Behind him was cowering in 
horror one of the two girls—the other had fainted. 

“It’s me, Kid, it’s me!” screamed Mr. McGraw. “Let 
up!” 

“What in God’s name is this?” demanded Levigne 
harshly. 

The half-breed raised himself weakly. “He’s got me,” 
he whispered chokingly. “In the neck. He’s got me.” 

For a moment Mr. Levigne stood still; then laughed— 
a curious dry chuckle that held an almost incredulous note. 

“ He’s got you!” he whispered, staring at the half-breed 
strangely. “Of all people in the world—him! You’ve 
come all these thousands of miles, Howarth, to find—ven¬ 
geance !” 

“Was I right about that kid?” demanded McGraw 
fiercely. “We shoulda took him back, an’ this trouble 
woulden ’a’ come.” 

“Is it a trouble ?” inquired the clean-shaven man calmly, 
with questioning lifted eyebrows. 

“Get a doctor,” moaned the wounded man. “I don’t 
want to croak.” 

“Get hell,” answered Levigne. “There’ll come no 
doctor here.” 

“It’s th’ beginnin’ o’ trouble,” persisted Mr. McGraw. 
“You watch it.” 


CHAPTER XXIII: “Bull” Dargan Forces Mr. Dob¬ 
son's Hand—and Scores 

M R. DARGAN, rolling along in the pleasant sum¬ 
mer evening with his friend Mr. Joseph Dobson, 
in the neat and unostentatious little four-seater, whose 
garage was very adjacent to Scotland Yard, was entirely 
in his element; and, therefore, despite slight inconvenience 
from his scarcely-healed wound, was enjoying himself 
immensely. 

The whole business was, in Mr. Dargan’s opinion, pro¬ 
pitious. He was away from that hospital; he was out in 
the fresh air; he was in harness, and upon business bent. 
In front of him was a policeman driver, supported by a 
plain-clothes man upon his left-hand side. 

A great game—in Mr. Dargan’s opinion a great sport 
-—and one to which he gave himself whole-heartedly. 
He had been trained by an Inspector as ruthless and im¬ 
placable as he had himself become in the prosecution of 
his duty—a cold-eyed, tight-lipped Irish Fenian, who had 
well earned his sobriquet of “Never-let-up Kelly” before 
he retired upon his laurels with the reputation of never 
having let a wanted man get by him. His mantle fell 
upon Mr. Dargan—a go-getter of human flesh and blood 
if ever one lived—when the Law said “Go—Get!” and 
the Inspector gave the nod. The disciple of “Never-let- 
up Kelly” was a worthy pupil of a great master—as 
Master “Frankie the Gun” and one or two others would be 
made well aware of before the hair grew much longer 
upon their heads. 

And now here he was; first day out of bed and nose to 

276 





“BULL” DARGAN SCORES 


277 


the scent. It was a good world. This party upon whom 
Mr. Dobson and he were making this informal and en¬ 
tirely unexpected call? This lady declaring herself to be 
the Countess of Racedene and her son the Earl of the 
same name? She was an American, and from that pleas¬ 
ing fact Mr. Dargan derived pleasant anticipations. 

For the answering cable from the Chief at Dallas, 
Texas, corroborated by the Chief at Tombstone, Arizona, 
was to the very plain effect that the Lona Howarth whom 
this lady purported to be was dead and buried; also that 
her infant son had not only assisted in this unfortunate 
demise, but had followed her out of a troubled world 
without undue delay. 

Who, then, was this American lady? Mr. Dargan 
wondered whether he should have the pleasure of renew¬ 
ing acquaintanceship with some old friend of that noble 
and jealously-guarded institution, The Barrel at Mulberry 
Street; and, if so, how would old Joe tackle her in his 
“interrogation” ? 

Mr. Dargan, taking a slant-eyed view of the stolid, 
bearded features of his friend, had a very good idea. It 
would be a solemn and unctuous business; a series of 
carefully thought-out queries and counter-queries, all sol¬ 
emnly recorded in that infernal black book which irritated 
Mr. Dargan beyond endurance. What the devil did a 
man want with a black book, when he had brains and a 
memory? And another thing, he’d got to stick to what 
he’d put down if ever he wanted to use it in affidavit: a 
childish business. A man’s memory was far more elas¬ 
tic, and could be twisted to suit the necessities of a case. 
However, down would go Joe’s little lot, sure enough— 
and a model it would be of what an Interrogatory should 
be. Meantime the suspect would slide from under with 
a million lies. Not if “Bull” Dargan knew it! If this 
was a shrewd Jane—and he figured it she must be pretty 


278 


THE BIG HEART 


“hep,” to tackle a “con” stunt of this magnitude—Joe 
was in for an exposition of the tortuous she-male brain 
divine which would amaze him. Not that he wouldn’t 
nail her at the finish—old Joe was a sticker once he took 
hold—but, oh, you fading years! Joe would be old and 
toothless, and the lady handing the “I remember once, 
many years ago” dope, before Joe would slip the steel 
around her fairy wrists. 

However, she was an American, and he could take a 
shot. If the worst came to the worst, he’d got a little pair 
of ratchet grips in his hip pocket, and he’d pull her and 
take a chance. She would not get out of those, once he'd 
put them on her. Mr. Dargan recalled with some distain 
that an English judge had spoken of these American grips 
as most barbarous instruments. What the blazes had it 
got to do with him, anyhow ? His job was to soak it good 
an’ proper to the ‘stiffs’ after they were in—not worry 
his head about how they were pulled there. That, and 
keep his eye out for any of his own class that might have 
been lumbered by accident. 

Mr. Dargan reverted to his previous introspection. 
Joe would not, he was certain, come over on this Jane with 
the sharp shoot—the vim, the pep, the job would need. 
He doubted whether he would lay on the last possible 
bearable ounce of pressure necessary to make her squeal. 
Mr. Dargan glanced again at his companion. He was 
far away in thought. 

“Joe,” he remarked carelessly, “seein’ that this hen is 
an American cit. you won’t mind me letting fly one or two 
queries on things like to interest me?” 

Mr. Dobson awoke from his brown study with a slight 
start. 

“Why, no,” he replied cautiously; “no—of course not.” 

“That’s all right, then,” answered Mr. Dargan hur¬ 
riedly; and swiftly turned from the subject. He had no 






“BULL” DARGAN SCORES 


279 


wish to go further into the suggestion with Mr. Dobson, 
who might upon reflection develop objections. 

A hundred yards from Mr. Heggit’s somewhat clois¬ 
tered residence the car stopped. The extra gentleman, 
loosening a baton in his hip pocket, made his way upon a 
Columbus-like mission to the rear of the premises—the 
noise from which, on account of Mr. Heggit’s predilec¬ 
tion for canine companionship in great numbers, held 
something of the deafening roar of the Zoo at about 
feeding-time. The official-looking chauffeur of the con¬ 
veyance—upon whose feet was also stamped plainly his 
birthright to the job he held—performed a similar pre¬ 
cautionary office along the front of the building; and, 
listening to the howls and barks of the chained infuriates, 
thanked his God fervently that Mr. Dobson had caught 
his mate’s eye first for the back-yard assignment. 

Mr. Dobson and Mr. Dargan leisurely proceeded to 
walk around the exterior of the building, subjecting it 
to an extremely analytical inspection as they went. 

“That’s curious,” whispered Mr. Dobson suddenly, 
pausing beneath a heavily-barred window, high up in the 
wall, from which showed a sickly yellow light; “don’t 
often see barring upon an upstairs window like that. 
About the first-floor landing—room off it, I should say.” 

“That’s the bird-cage,” answered Mr. Dargan confi¬ 
dently, “and a corking solid one it looks. Now we’ll 
have a screw at the birds.” 

Taking flashlight torches from their pockets, the two 
gentlemen proceeded warily along the dog-ambushed path. 
One animal, which appeared to have the blood of several 
breeds all noted for their latent ferocity mingling in its 
veins, got so perilously close to Mr. Dargan that it re¬ 
ceived in consequence so smashing a blow from his baton 
that it dropped in its tracks and took a long long sleep. 

A door opened with startling suddenness almost beside 




280 


THE BIG HEART 


them, and a dirty yellow light shed a lambent ray upon 
their darkness. In the centre of this doubtful illumina¬ 
tion, framed in the doorway, lurched the ponderous form 
of Mr. Heggit. 

“Who the ’ell’s a-moochin’ abart there?” he demanded 
irately. 

“Me, Heggit,” answered Mr. Dobson, ungrammati¬ 
cally and not informatively. 

“And who’s me?” growled Hr. Heggit persistently, 
“an’ wot’s more, my name’s Mister ’Eggit—not ’Eggit.” 

“I could have called you by a number you’d have 
known, Heggit,” responded Mr. Dobson mildly, stepping 
into the light, “but I thought the other sounded pleas¬ 
anter.” 

“Spare me days,” gasped the disgruntled marine-store 
dealer, falling back, aghast, “if it ain’t Mr. Dobson!” 
He retreated anxiously into his kitchen. Mr. Dobson 
entered, followed by Mr. Dargan, who closed the door 
upon them and leant against it noticeably. 

“Take a chair, Mr. Dobson—and friend,” stammered 
Mr. Heggit, gazing round him helplessly, while Mrs. 
Heggit carefully dusted a couple of these pieces of furni¬ 
ture, then sidled towards the outer door. Finding her¬ 
self confronted by the massive frame of Mr. Dargan, she 
stopped suddenly, wringing her hands and retreating into 
the farthest corner possible; where she sat still and 
sniffed. 

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Dobson, sir,—and 
friend?” inquired Mr. Heggit, fingering his chins nerv¬ 
ously. 

“I want to have a look at that guest you’ve got here, 
Heggit,” answered Mr. Dobson, coming to the point 
promptly. 

“Guest?” uttered Mr. Heggit, gazing upon his visitor 


“BULL” DARGAN SCORES 


281 


with the most perfect simulation of blank astonishment 
possible. “Me, Mr. Dobson? Me, sir?” 

Mr. Dobson did not trouble to reply to this innocent 
bewilderment. He took out his watch, glanced at it, 
closed it with a snap of much firmness and decision; then 
returned it to his pocket with an ominously business-like 
air. 

“I’ve got just five minutes to interview this woman and 
child,” he remarked shortly, “otherwise I miss an ap¬ 
pointment—a particular appointment. If I do,” he con¬ 
tinued, speaking with narrowed eyes and tremendous pre¬ 
cision, “I’ll have time to stay a bit and inquire into one 
or two other things I’m curious about. For instance, 
what became of that couple of hundred pounds’ worth of 
Sheffield plate that you bought from Sam Cleever for 
thirty pounds? And, for another—” 

“Not one minute shall you be kept waiting, Mr. Dob¬ 
son,” interjected the suspected dealer in this antique ware 
hastily. “I know ’ow a gent like you ’as no time for 
messin’ abart; on’y er—ceptin’ to say as wot I done wiv 
regards to this ’ere female an’ young—in a manner of 
speakin’—wot was under the orspices of them very ’igh 
up, an’ a-doin’ them a kindness an’ me a bit o’ good as 
well. Nothink criminal.” 

“Cert’nly not,” uttered Mrs. Heggit abruptly. 

Mr. Dobson glanced meaningly at his watch a second 
time. “I and my friend will come with you,” he observed. 

“For Gawd’s sake, no!” almost shrieked Hr. Heggit. 
“Just wait till I get that blarsted dorg fr’m off the 
landin’, sir, an’ you’re free as air t’ go anywhere as you 
fancy. Arf a mo, Mr. Dobson, sir—an’ friend—while I 
hike ’im out. Stand a little clear o’ th’ door, gen’lmin.” 

“What do you keep him up there for?” demanded Mr. 
Dobson 


282 


THE BIG HEART 


“Well, Mr. Dobson, sir,” replied Mr. Heggit, some¬ 
what touched by embarrassment, “it ain’t for me to ’ave 
nothink to say again the likes of what people like this 
’ere co—er— lady corrected Mr. Heggit hastily, “this 
’ere lady an’ young what’s a-stoppin’ wiv me to orders. 
A bloke don’t get ten foont a week same’s them torfs 
pays me wiv’art ’avin’ sunnink to do for it. But, blimey,” 
exclaimed Mr. Howarth indignantly, “when a ble—when 
a female goes an’ breaks a water-jug over a bloke’s ’ead 
as is doin’ nothin’ worse than bring ’er 'er scran all dossy 
on a genooine silver tray; an’ that there flamin’ kid runs 
a ’at-pin throo ’is leg what might be a ampertayshin job 
for what any one knows—” 

“Festured sunnick hawful it did,” interrupted Mrs. 
Heggit in soulful corroboration. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Heggit, shaking his head mournfully. 
“Not arf. Might 'a bin the ruins o’ me for life!” 

“Rough sort, is she?” questioned Mr. Dargan,-keenly. 

“I don’t want t’ say nuffink uncompilamentary before a 
stranger t’ me, an’ a friend of Mr. Dobson’s wot’s a pur- 
fec’ genelman as I know inter the bargain,” answered 
Mr. Heggit with voluminous and impressively measured 
diction, “but if you arst my opinions wot I call the likes 
of ’er, it’s a fair cow; an’ oughter be treated accordin’.” 

With which forcibly-worded denunciation of the pris¬ 
oner in his charge, Mr. Heggit withdrew; to be heard 
presently howling threats and imprecations of a dire and 
unprintable nature towards some animal, which upon its 
passage through the kitchen appeared to be a little brother 
of the creature Mr. Dargan had so adroitly tapped 
into slumber with his club; but double its size, and, a hun¬ 
dred times more bloodthirsty. The passage effected with¬ 
out untoward mishap, Mr. Heggit led them to the land¬ 
ing vacated by the ejected pet, presented them with a 
large key, and betook himself back to the kitchen. 



“BULL” DARGAN SCORES 


283 


Mr. Dobson, tried the key in the lock: it worked 
smoothly. 

“One minute, Joe,” said Mr. Dargan. “I want to 
stand outside for a moment and get her voice. Nothing 
brings ’em back to me like a voice. I just want to get 
a good listen to it, and I’ll be with you on the 
hop.” 

Inside, the door, Mr. Dobson found himself faced by 
the superb-looking Amazon who called herself the Coun¬ 
tess of Racedene. He had not expected to find so regal 
a specimen of womanhood. A glance at her eyes, how¬ 
ever, reassured him; they were black, glittering with 
anger, and shifty; and, above all, had that furtivity of 
expression which experience had taught him to look for 
in the criminals of either sex. 

“Who are you and what do you want?”she demanded 
bluntly. 

“Are you the lady calling herself the Countess of Race¬ 
dene?” inquired Mr. Dobson suavely. 

“I am the Countess of Racedene—the widow of Eric 
Royal,” answered the woman shortly. 

“Ah,” responded Mr. Dobson softly, “and this, I sup¬ 
pose, is his lordship the little Earl?” 

“It is,” replied the dark-skinned woman truculently. 
“Got anything to say about it?” 

“No,” answered Mr. Dobson slowly. “As yet —no.” 

“And who might you be?” she went on. “Which 
member of the little gang are you?” 

“Gang?” repeated Mr. Dobson quietly. “Eve nothing 
to do with any gang. I’m from the police—Scotland 
Yard.” 

For a second, the steady eyes of Mr. Dobson noted, 
the woman flinched. This was an aspect of the game she 
probably had not anticipated. 

“Yes,” repeated Mr. Dobson, drawing from his pocket 


284 


THE BIG HEART 


the evitable black book beloved of Mr. Dargan, and pre¬ 
paring to make notes; “from Scotland Yard.” 

“I’ve got nothing to say,” said the woman abruptly, 
turning away; not, however, before he had caught the 
sudden gleam of anxiety in her eyes. 

“On your statement, made to the friends of the ac¬ 
cepted Lady Racedene in this country,” continued Mr. 
Dobson imperturbably, “you are Lona Howarth, and you 
are in this country with your brother, Bart Howarth. 
That is so?” 

“It’s got nothing to do with you !” fired the dark-skinned 
woman. “My business is between these Racedenes and 
me.” 

“Are you that Lona Howarth or are you not?” de¬ 
manded Mr. Dobson bluntly. 

“What if I refuse to answer your question?” snapped 
the woman. 

“I’ve men here, and I’ll soon take you to where 
you will answer them," was Mr. Dobson’s very firm 
retort. 

The woman hesitated; he could see by the clenched 
hands that she was debating her course of action fever¬ 
ishly. 

“Yes, I’m Lona Howarth,” she said shortly. 

“And this boy is your son, and the late Eric Royal’s ?” 

“Yes.” 

“What if the police of Texas and Arizona assure us 
that Lona Howarth is dead and buried, and that her son 
died at birth and was buried with her?” 

“Texas! Ar—’’ began the woman, staring at Dobson 
as one in a maze. “They lie—they lie!” she asserted 
fiercely. “My brother can prove it—and I’ve my mar¬ 
riage-lines and my papers all square.” 

“Where is your brother?” asked Mr. Dobson curtly. 

For a second the dark-skinned woman made a move as 




“BULL” DARGAN SCORES 


285 


though to answer; then checked herself sharply. “That’s 
his business,” she snarled. 

“In hiding,” smiled Mr. Dobson; “but I know all about 
him that I want to know.” 

The woman again laughed with her hard sneer. 
“You’re clever,” she drawled insolently. “You’re wasted 
here; you ought to be at Mulberry Street.” 

“Got ya!” exclaimed a triumphant voice, and Mr. Dar- 
gan, looking particularly pleased with himself, entered 
the room and closed the door. 

The dark-skinned woman stared at him as though 
confronted with the ghost of some person long considered 
dead. 

“You?” she faltered. “I—I know you! Who are 
you?” 

Mr. Dargan laughed and took up a stand leaning 
against the mantelpiece. 

“Don’t get me all at once?” he smiled. “Well, I’ve got 
you —and got you to rights.” 

The woman threw up her head defiantly. “Well, who 
am I, since you’re so damned smart?” she said. 

Mr. Dargan touched her lightly on the shoulder; the 
enjoyment in his voice was most unmistakably genuine. 

“You’re my old pal ‘Cheyenne Lou’; that’s who you 
are, my red-skinned peach,” he responded genially, “and 
I’m glad to run across you again. And how’s it breakin’ 
for you these little old times? How’s Bart, and Frankie, 
and Derrick H., and all the boys?” 

“Is this woman Lona Howarth?” demanded Mr. Dob¬ 
son. 

“Is she Hell!” replied Mr. Dargan. “That’s ‘Cheyenne 
Lou.’ ” 

“Is this Howarth her brother?” continued Mr. Dobson. 

Mr. Dargan watched her narrowly, for all his careless, 
contemptuous laugh. 


286 


THE BIG HEART 


“More like her husband,” he answered; “and that kid’s 
a ‘breed’ both sides of his pedigree, for a dollar.” 

“It’s a lie,” denounced the woman passionately. 

“What’s it matter t’you, Lou?” questioned Mr. Dar- 
gan with easy surprise. “He’s blown with this new 
Jane and left you on the blink. A fine-looking dame like 
you. I should worry! He’s done y’ dirt, kid—he’s 
away off with the young ’un.” 

“It’s a lie!” screamed the woman, with blazing eyes, 
confronting Dargan with clenched hands, her bosom heav¬ 
ing passionately. 

“Is it?” laughed Mr. Dargan. “Not on your life, it 
isn’t.” He turned to the astonished Mr. Dobson. 
“What d’ye want Howarth for?” 

“Ab—abducting a woman,” responded Mr. Dobson, in 
slightly bewildered fashion; “two of ’em, in fact.” 

The woman looked towards him as though stunned. 
Mr. Dargan grinned. 

“There y’are, kid, y’ got it straight. Take it easy,” 
he advised. “She’s got him—or what’s left of him.” 

“What d’ye mean?” uttered the woman hoarsely. 
“What’s happened to him?” 

“He’s stiffed,” said Mr. Dargan flatly. “He and Pol- 
taro quarrelled over the women, and the gunman croaked 
him.” 

Mr. Dobson gazed at his confrere in profound amaze¬ 
ment; then a hoarse, low moan of agony from the woman 
turned him quickly. Her hands were clenched above her 
head, and again the cry came from her lips—a cry so 
loaded with poignant anguish that it moved the stolid 
Englishman to his depths. 

“Bart!” she uttered hoarsely. “My husband—my—” 
then broke off with a great shudder of fear. 

Mr. Dargan laughed. 

“Got ya,” he remarked with a grin. 



287 


“BULL” DARGAN SCORES 

r 

She stared at him vacantly, a dull red flushing her neck 
and face. 

‘‘Cut it,” he ordered sharply. “You’re mine, Mrs. Bart 
Howarth, alias ‘Cheyenne Lou.’ I got you where I want 
you—you’re mine /” 

The colour died from her face, and without a sound 
she fell prone to the floor. 

Mr. Dobson’s face, as he helped to lift her to the bed, 
was not wreathed in smiles at the success of his con¬ 
frere’s endeavour. 

“It may be clever,” he remarked coldly, “but it’s damned 
brutal.” 

“That so?” responded Mr. Dargan with laconic indif¬ 
ference. 

“Merciless,” added Mr. Dobson. “Merciless and in¬ 
human !” He was really very indignant. 

“Oh,” answered Mr. Dargan, eyeing him frowningly, 
“is it? What about that poor woman who’s done no 
harm to any one, and had her youngster kidnapped, and 
is nearly crazy with anxiety ? Don’t her feelings count 
any? What about the kid himself, that you’re so fond 
of? Is he enjoying himself, d’ye know? What about 
Jake Schornhurst and those two girls? Joe,” concluded 
Mr. Dargan disgustedly, “there’s times when you sure 
give me a pain.” 

And for once Mr. Dobson was at a complete loss to 
justify his expressed opinions. 


CHAPTER XXIV: Contains a Warning, and several 
quite unexpected Happenings 

F OR the one hundredth and sixty-ninth time, so the 
Honourable Mr. Blakeley irritably informed him, 
did Mr. Patrick Courtenay rise from his armchair in the 
smoking-room of the Club, glance at the clock, then at 
his watch, perambulate the length of the room, gaze out 
of the window, repeat his anxious glance at the clock, and 
re-seat himself. Which, as Mr. Blakeley succinctly 
stated, was a damnably useless and irritating business. 

To which Mr. Courtenay retorted that for some ump¬ 
teen million times Mr. Blakeley had drummed upon the 
table by him with his fingers, and tapped with his foot 
upon the floor simultaneously. 

“Paddy,” said the Honourable Bill, flinging* himself 
back in his chair wearily, “I’m blowed if I know what to 
make of it. Twelve o’clock, and not a word from Gal. 
What the devil’s gone wrong with him?” 

Mr. Courtenay shook his head gloomily. 

“That feller,” he responded, “seems to mesmerise them, 
somehow.” 

“I could understand it with Bowes-Chev.,” went on the 
Plonourable Bill, “but I did think the Major would be too 
fly for him.” 

“We’re up against a dashed big proposition, old man,” 
said Paddy grimly, “and that’s the truth of it. I’ll lay 
anny money the Major's in trouble. We’d have heard 
from him else. Nothing surer.” 

“I hope to heaven it’s not that,” groaned the Honour¬ 
able Bill. “With that little woman of his—and the two 

kids—my God! It would be too awful.” 

288 


UNEXPECTED HAPPENINGS 


289 


“It’s worryin’ the deuce out of me,” returned Patrick. 
He rose with a mighty sigh and a forlorn shrug. “As 
for the whole lot of it: another day of nothing happen¬ 
ing but bad luck, and I’ll be a raving maniac!” 

The Honourable Bill regarded him malevolently. 

“If you start that infernal mooch of yours again,” he 
hissed, “you’ll be a corpse. Sit down; or I’ll bally well 
knock you down.” 

Mr. Courtenay, with another sigh and a shrug more 
weary, if possible, than the last, re-seated himself and 
glared hopelessly at the carpet. 

A waiter noiselessly presented himself at Mr. Blakeley’s 
elbow, causing that gentleman, in his overstrung state, to 
leap as though suddenly stung by a wasp. 

“You're wanted upon the telephone, sir,” he announced 
beamingly. 

The Honourable Bill’s face lit up; he leapt to his feet. 

“Gad!” he exclaimed. “Old Gal at last! Stout man!” 

“A lady, I think, sir, that’s calling you,” beamed the 
waiter pleasantly. 

The Honourable Bill’s face resumed its lugubrious ex¬ 
pression. “Oh!” he remarked shortly. “All right.” 

The waiter retired—still beaming. 

“Who the devil is it?” groaned the Honourable 
Bill. “I—I hope it’s not Felicia—with no news to give 
her.” 

The Honourable Mr. Blakeley slowly and dejectedly 
left the room. Mr. Courtenay seized upon the opportu¬ 
nity to arise hurriedly and get in quite a number of his 
favourite perambulations; then pulled up at the window 
and gazed forth with a great air of having but that second 
left his chair and leisurely strolled there. 

Having contemplated the landscape from this point, he 
was about to return for his usual few seconds’ rest, when 
upon the opposite side of the street, through a maze of 


290 


THE BIG HEART 


’buses, taxis and other traffic, something—or rather, some 
one—caught his eye. 

Why that particular person should have struck upon 
his vision he did not know; possibly because he seemed 
strangely out of keeping with his surroundings. He was 
also certain that he had noted the fellow in one of his 
earlier peregrinations to the window, viewed him in a 
detached, abstracted sort of way, semi-conscious that he 
was doing so. Mr. Courtenay had never seen the man 
before; and yet he had a very distinct feeling about him 
of knowing him quite well; but how, why, when or where, 
he could not for the life of him recall. 

Mr. Courtenay gave the mysterious lounger his undi¬ 
vided attention and a searching scrutiny, racking what 
was left of his brain the while in the endeavour to fit him 
in somewhere. 

He was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, middle-sized 
man, dressed in clothes of unmistakably American cut, 
but subdued in colour. In ordinary circumstances Patrick 
could conceive him to be a jolly-faced person, though at 
the present moment his principal expression seemed to 
contain much- of anxiety and restlessness. He seemed at 
a loss about something. 

He noted that the man, although thick set and bull 
necked, had no slouch, but stood upright and had the 
lithe carriage of an athlete. A thing that struck him 
particularly was his hands—they were enormous. It was 
plain that his anxiety increased with every fleeting mo¬ 
ment; and his eyes ranged over the front of the Club with 
tremendous indecision. Who the devil was he? and what 
made Paddy think he knew him? It was a poser. He 
wished devoutly that Bill would come. 

The grizzled commissionaire came down the steps and 
whistled shrilly for a cab. Two or three passing pulled 
in competitively towards the pavement, and in the shuffle 



UNEXPECTED HAPPENINGS 


291 


Patrick lost his man. A member entered one and de¬ 
parted; when suddenly, round the back of another, with 
the litheness of an eel, the anxious-eyed one appeared, 
and engaged the commissionaire in earnest and hurried 
conversation. Mr. Courtenay watched him press upon 
the sergeant a letter, then a piece of money, and with some 
last feverish adjuration, he disappeared again as rapidly 
as he had come—to take up a position in the doorway of 
a shop some considerable way up on the other side of the 
street. 

But, in the second of his turning to depart, Paddy 
caught a glimpse of the one link necessary to connect this 
thickset stranger with a real and decidedly tangible per¬ 
son. It was the enormous cauliflower ear. This anx¬ 
ious-faced mystery man, then, was Bill’s tin-eared mem¬ 
ber of the gang! What the devil was he doing here, 
delivering messages, and what was he lurking about in 
wait for? Shadowing somebody. Bill—or himself? 
What did this new move in the game mean? What had 
gone wrong—or right—as it might prove to be? 

The Honourable Bill broke in upon this frenzied solilo¬ 
quy with such an air of suppressed excitement, and so 
grim a twist to his firm lips, that Mr. Courtenay was im¬ 
mediately aware that something else had cropped up in 
this most amazing of all amazing businesses. 

“Paddy,” said Mr. Blakeley quietly. “I’ve just had the 
office given me over the ’phone from a girl I know at 
Exchange—I’ve mentioned her, I think,—a wench called 
Myrtle. She overheard my name mentioned in a call, 
and, cat-like, cut in and listened. They were two public 
’phone numbers speaking, so she can give no clue as to 
identity; but the conversation was between a Frankie—’’ 

“Poltaro,” added Mr. Courtenay, evincing considerable 
interest. 

“—and Levigne,” went on the Honourable Bill quickly. 



292 


THE BIG HEART 


“Something’s gone wrong somewhere, and they put it 
down to me. There’s an arrangement to put me out of 
the way, tonight. She heard my address mentioned— 
Pont Street. It’s to be a shooting affair—” 

“And Poltaro’s to do it,’’ commented Mr. Courtenay. 
“That the lot?” 

“Quite enough, isn’t it?” answered the Honourable Bill, 
opening his eyes. “Jolly good of the girl to warn 
me.” 

“Ye’re a lovable soul,” said Mr. Courtenay, still staring 
out of the window, “and she’s done us a rare good turn. 
Mr. Poltaro'll be having a warm evening.” 

The elderly commissionaire came into the room, a 
frowsy-looking envelope in his hand. He approached 
Mr. Blakeley, and, saluting, presented him with it. 

The Honourable Bill received it gingerly. 

“What the deuce is this, sergeant?” he inquired dubi¬ 
ously. 

“I fancy,” interjected Patrick, “ye’ll get some more in¬ 
formation from that on the state of things.” 

“Gent handed it to me in the street,” answered the 
sergeant with a most correct and bluff statement of hap¬ 
penings. “To be given to the Honourable Bill Blakeley 
at once, sir. Very urgent, he said, and having read it, 
you were to stand pat—his words, sir—upon information 
received.” 

Mr. Blakeley turned the envelope over in a state of 
complete mystification. 

“Right ho, sergeant,” he said. “I expect I’ll know 
what it’s about when I read it.” 

The sergeant saluted and departed. Mr. Courtenay, 
his eyes still glued to the window, showed signs again of 
rising impatience. 

“What the devil is it?” repeated the Honourable Bill, 
again turning the missive over in his hands. 


UNEXPECTED HAPPENINGS 


293 


“Read it,” advised his companion with blunt acerbity, 
“and find out. Read it, you ass, while I watch the man 
who brought it.” 

In a flash the Honourable Bill was at the window and 
peering over Mr. Courtenay’s shoulder. 

“Where?” he demanded shortly. 

“In that doorway,” answered Paddy; “eighth up—other 
side.” 

The Honourable Bill started. 

“By Gad!” he exclaimed; “it’s the tin-eared man!” 

“Read what he’s bally well got to say—will ye!” howled 
Patrick at him in dire exasperation. “It may be— 
Heaven only knows what!” 

Thus admonished, Mr. Blakeley tore open the envelope 
and feverishly scanned the contents. It had evidently 
been concocted by dint of severe mental pounding, and 
stumbled along as follows: 

“Dere frend Blakeley. You an me is up agan it in busnis 
wat aint to say a guy cant put a guy wyse when dirt is round. 
Don’t (this being heavily underscored) go near your apartment 
these p. m. I aint a dubble Xer but a guy is lain for yew wat 
is sure on the shoot. Nuff said. On the stareway so be foxy. 

“The kiddo—wats my pal his Erldom—is good. Aint 
nuthin done him no dirt I seen to that. Git me. Also them 
lady’s all A N I. an’ no complanes. Stan pat on wat I spiel they 
are O. K. an good to loke at. The big breede tried a jerk on 
the big won Miss S. an has gotta his i thing for keepps. Am 
lacin out to git Kiddo back to big house. Savvy. Him an me 
is sure maytes. He sens love you an tel hees Maw hees fit 
an good. Awl so say nuthin dooing that uther Cowntes on the 
blink—phoney job. Git me Bil. 

“Kiddo seys yew’l sure wallup hell outa me wen we have 
a go. Well a square go an no ruffhouse an a clene brake is 
wot yewl git evry time. I was a champien middle wate 
once an fight fare. 

“No maure. Don wurry kiddo nor Dames. O. K. 

“A Frend. 


294 


THE BIG HEART 


P. S. The kiddo is sure fonde of Unkle Bil—an them Dames 
is the goodes dont frette. 

P. SS. Don forgit Kiddos Maw the Cowntes—to tel her. 
I promised.” 

So long did the Honourable Bill stand staring in silent 
amazement at this epistle that Paddy turned sharply to see 
why no information was forthcoming. 

The Honourable Bill’s eyes were suspiciously moist as 
he thrust the letter into Mr. Courtenay’s hand. 

“He’s a white un,” he said huskily, “whoever he is— 
crook or no crook. It’s the first crumb of comfort we’ve 
had and—and I’m damned grateful to him.” 

He turned and imitated Mr. Courtenay’s perambulating 
trick—his emotion plainly evident. 

That gentleman read the letter slowly, folded it care¬ 
fully, and put it in his pocket. 

“I knew,” he said, and he likewise was none too clear 
in tone, “I knew by the look of his face—he was a good 
feller. Damn him,” ejaculated the Irishman fondly, “his 
letter is like—like a breath of Heaven.” 

“I’m going out to speak to him,” announced the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill suddenly. 

“Ye’ll do nothing of the kind,” declared Paddy, inter¬ 
posing himself between Mr. Blakeley and the door. “Ye 
blitherin’ idiot, we have here our chance! He’s shadow¬ 
ing one of us. He’s keeping straight with his gang, 
although ...” 

He broke off, and again reverted to the window. 
“He’ll not sell them,” he said; “he’s too square. We 
must get under him by subterfuge. We can fix up for 
him later. Curse him,” concluded Mr. Courtenay weakly, 
“he’s a good feller; we must see nothing happens to him.” 

“Which of us will he be foxing?” frowned the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill. “Me, I suppose.” 


UNEXPECTED HAPPENINGS 


295 


“We’ll soon find out,” replied Paddy. “I’ll go out 
and draw him.” 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Blakeley 
firmly. “I’m going out, and I’m going right past him 
reading that letter; so that he’ll know I’ve got his warn¬ 
ing. That’s due to him.” 

“Perhaps ye’re right,” admitted Paddy, “and I’ll tail 
up. 

“I’ll lose him through the Burlington and slip into the 
Albany,” continued the Honourable Bill. “He can’t get 
in there, but I can get out. Then I’ll make back here.” 

“Good,” said Mr. Courtenay. “I’ll arrange for any 
’phone message here to be carefully taken while we’re 
gone.” 

“We’ll not be long,” said Mr. Blakeley. I’ll promise 
you that.” 

And so the cavalcade started. The Honourable Bill 
strolled casually out to the doorway, stood sunning him¬ 
self a moment, then leisurely crossed the road and pro¬ 
ceeded at a measured pace in the direction of the waiting 
shadow. In his hand he carried the open letter, which, 
upon coming to the line of shop-fronts, he perused with 
such attention that the sigh of relief and brightened 
expression of the gentleman staring fixedly into the win¬ 
dow of a tobacconist’s shop escaped him completely. 

Mr. McGraw, behind a newspaper which he had hur¬ 
riedly purchased at a kiosk—and which happened to be 
the Methodist Times —followed along; and at a respect¬ 
able distance, and upon the other side of the street, Mr. 
Patrick Courtenay formed the rear-guard of this some¬ 
what curious procession. 

The Honourable Mr. Blakeley moved slowly and 
thoughtfully; upon Mr. McGraw’s countenance was also 
to be seen traces of an exercised mind; but the features 



296 


THE BIG HEART 


of Mr. Courtenay showed the severest strain of the lot. 
He was frantically turning over in his brain how the 
deuce he was to keep tab of the kindly natured Mr. 
McGraw when once the Honourable Bill had slipped him, 
as per plan, in the Albany. 

At a corner which he was abstractedly crossing, a 
raucous soul-stirring sound of song burst upon his har¬ 
rowed hearing. It was not cheerful music; indeed, Mr. 
Courtenay considered it a damned awful row, and won¬ 
dered what the deuce the police were about to permit it. 

An irritated glance in the direction of this untuneful lay 
disclosed the fact that it was being emitted from the vocal 
organs of a wizened, slink-shouldered young Jew, suitably 
supported by an equally wizened young Jewess, bearing in 
her frail arms a still more remarkable wizened and beady- 
eyed young Jewlet. 

The singer wore a remarkable fusion of raiment. A 
pair of velveteen trousers which appeared to have started 
their career originally as riding-breeches, a khaki uniform 
coat in the last stages of grease and disrepair, but upon 
which was pinned the most extraordinary array of medals 
and ribbons Mr. Courtenay had ever beheld upon one 
human breast—nearly outvying in colour and significance 
the number worn by certain Cabinet Ministers in their 
levee attire, when giving a long-suffering public a treat. 

They were all there—1914, Mons, 1919, Victory, 
D.C.M., Croix de Guerre —all the whole bally bundle; 
topped off, as was eminently fit and proper, by an ex¬ 
tremely new and bright Victoria Cross. Above the be- 
medalled chest, which was scarcely broad enough to set 
off the martial emblazonments, were the gaunt, hawk-like 
features, the beady, cunning eyes of Abrahams, his old 
commercially-minded batman; and all over Abrahams 
was printed in great stark, ugly letters the words Hunger, 
Want, and Misery. Mr. Courtenay stood stock-still in 


UNEXPECTED HAPPENINGS 


297 


petrified astonishment and pained consternation. Poor 
devil!—it was a hell of a world entirely. 

“Should Hinglishmen be 'omeless 
We-hilst we ’ave won the wo-war?” 

demanded Abrahams in the key of A flat minor. A 
lacerating query, in reply to which Mr. Courtenay dived 
into his pockets in search of the only fitting response. 

He was forestalled by a stoutish, red faced gentleman 
of advanced years, in a grey frock suit and topper. 

“Military,’’ thought Paddy. “Anglo-Indian by the 
look of him.” 

“Where did you get those?” demanded the red-faced 
gentleman, prodding the vocalist upon the chest with his 
gold-mounted stick. 

“Won ’em, sir,” answered Mr. Abrahams, bringing 
his heels together with a click and handing this deter¬ 
mined old gentleman a salute fit for a G.O.C. “Servin’ 
of me country,” he continued wailingly, “an’ look what 
she’s done f’r me. I arsts you, sir? ’Eart-breakin’!” 

“D’ye mean to say, sir, that you—you won ’em all?” 
shouted the red-faced gentleman. “The Cross as well?” 

“Hevery one, sir—so ’elp me,” averred Mr. Abrahams 
nervously, “an’ look what—” 

At this identical moment his eye caught that of Mr. 
Courtenay advancing toward him. 

“Lord lumme!” shouted Mr. Abrahams. “ ’Ere’s my 
old orficer—C’p’n Courtenay. ’E can tell yer, sir. I 
was ’e’s bat all through. ’E’ll tell yer all about me.” 

Here Mr. Abraham again performed his grand military 
salute, and stood stolidly to attention whilst Mr. Courte¬ 
nay, somewhat shamefacedly, was engaged by the sten¬ 
torian old gentleman. 

“How are ye, Abrahams?” he asked quietly. “Sorry 
to see ye like this.” 



298 


THE BIG HEART 


“Do I understand, sir,” demanded the old gentleman, 
“that you know this—this unfortunate man, and that 
he—he is genuine?” 

“He was my batman through the war, sir,” answered 
Paddy ambiguously. “I’ve not seen him since he was 
demobbed, I’m sorry to say. He certainly doesn’t deserve 
to be left like this.” 

“Scandalous!” snorted the red-faced gentleman. “An 
—an outrage!” 

He surreptitiously changed the shilling in his hand for 
two half-crowns. 

“This your wife and child?” he questioned. 

“Yessir,” answered Mr. Abrahams. 

The red-faced gentleman handed his five shillings to 
the wizened, starved looking little woman, who promptly, 
in endeavouring to make some articulate thanks, burst 
into tears. 

“Scandalous!” again breathed the red-faced gentleman 
in Patrick’s ear. “You can do something for him, I 
hope ?” 

“Yes,” said Patrick, a bright idea flashing suddenly 
across his somewhat bewildered mind. “Yes, I think I 
can.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the red-faced gentleman. 
“Extremely glad to hear it. My name is Barresby. 
General Barresby. It’s these petty, pettifogging bounders 
in Whitehall that’re the cause of this—this sort of busi¬ 
ness. Army’s all right—sound to the core! Politicians 
—Bah! Do you know what I’d do with a Government 
that allows such things as this to happen?” 

“I do not, sir,” replied Patrick politely, his eye well 
ahead upon Mr. McGraw. 

“Then I’ll tell you, sir,” announced the General fiercely. 
“I’d hang the blasted lot of ’em, sir, from the Grand 


UNEXPECTED HAPPENINGS 


299 


Panjandrum down. That’s what I’d do with ’em. 
Good morning—pleased to have met you—and be damned 
to ’em all!” 

With which virile and outspoken criticism he departed 
to his Club. 

“Where did you get those?” demanded Paddy severely. 

“I ’ire ’em,” replied Mr. Abrahams. “ ’Ave to, sir. 
Wouldn’t get a bean if it wasn’t for them. Can’t y’ get 
me somethink to do, sir? We’re starving—livin’ in a 
doss-house. I’m not kiddin’. Look at ’er,” he appealed, 
pointing at the still weeping little drab at his side. “Ten 
stun gal she was when I was demobbed. Look at ’er 
nah—you’d never believe it.” 

And indeed it was difficult to credit—very difficult. 

Mr. Courtenay gazed anxiously along the other side of 
the road. The Honourable Bill had halted and was view¬ 
ing the display in the window of a sporting print shop. 
His shadow, likewise at a standstill, twenty yards lower 
down, was deep in his Methodist Times. 

Mr. Courtenay pointed suddenly. “See that man 
standing reading the paper?” he asked quickly. “Thick¬ 
set man with a tin ear, in dark American clothes?” 

Mr. Abrahams’ flashing Hebraic eyes scanned the 
street in the direction indicated. 

“Yessir,” he answered sharply. 

“I want you to follow him,” said Paddy, taking a 
bundle of notes from his pocket, at sight of which his 
ex-batman’s eyes gleamed wolfishly. “If you can trail 
him until you can plant for certain where he lives—for 
certain, mind you—” 

Mr. Abrahams nodded quickly. “I know,” he 
snapped. 

“If you can get that for me for certain, I’ll give you 
a hundred pounds to start in business.” 



300 


THE BIG HEART 


For a moment Mr. Abrahams stared at his late officer 
in paralysed amazement; then his lips shut down with 
a snap. 

“If ’e can lose me,” he said, “ *e’ll ’ave the luck of a 
louse, an’ then ’e won’t.” 

Patrick scribbled an address and telephone number— 
that of Mr. Blakeley—upon a card. 

“Study that,” he ordered; “learn it by heart, then de¬ 
stroy the card. ’Phone me there—or wire. Then stay 
on his heels, or at the place you appoint until I come or 
send. There’s a tenner there,” he said, placing it in the 
man’s hands. “You can’t tell what you'll want, and I 
don’t want you to be stuck. The day I put my hands on 
the lot that man’s in with—today, I hope, or tomorrow— 
I’ll give you a hundred pounds. Now repeat my orders, 
and carry on. I’ll give your wife some money and 
send her home. She’ll be all right.” 

Mr. Abrahams duly recited, with Semitic thoroughness, 
his instructions in order. There was no doubt possible 
as to the tigerish keenness with which he tackled the 
job. At that moment Mr. Blakeley moved leisurely on; 
followed, after a moment’s judicious pause, by his 
shadow; who, in his turn, had at his heels as alert and 
cunning an intelligence as Houndsditch and vicinity had 
ever reared to crafty maturity. The trophies of war had 
disappeared. 

Hailing a taxi-cab, Mr. Courtenay placed the attenu¬ 
ated lately ‘ten stun gal’ and her progeny inside, not with¬ 
out several askance looks on the part of the plutocrat 
who drove it. 

“Dorset Street, Spitalfields,” he directed. 

“’Ere, guv’nor!” expostulated the driver. 

“There’s your fare—double it,” returned Mr. Courte¬ 
nay calmly, handing him a ten-shilling treasury note. 
“I’ve got your number, so carry on—quick!” As there 


UNEXPECTED HAPPENINGS 


301 


was an extremely unpleasant look in his eye, the taxi 
gentleman carried on as requested—and with expedition. 

Mr. Courtenay returned to the Club to await the ar¬ 
rival of Mr. Blakeley. He felt considerably cheered by 
the little rencontre —and a thousand times more hope¬ 
ful. 

Some fifteen minutes later he was*"called to the ’phone. 
The speaker was John Hammerden, and he demanded 
their presence at Sunbury without delay. Dobson was 
there and the American detective; and with them the 
pseudo Lady Racedene. 

Upon hearing Mr. Courtenay’s news of the morning 
he whistled hopefully. 

“That sounds more cheerful,” he commented. “In 
any case it’s everything to know the girls and the child 
are all right. Jake will be beside himself with joy.” 

“And this woman is Howarth’s wife, you say?” ques¬ 
tioned Paddy in astonishment. 

“She’s admitted it,” replied Mr. Hammerden. “But 
she’s put the fat in the fire as far as I’m concerned.” 

“What she done ?” inquired Paddy anxiously. 

“Denounced me to this Dargan as Arthur Haybridge, 
the escaped murderer of Eric Royal.” 

“Good heavens!” gasped Patrick. “And what did he 
do?” 

“Laughed,” answered Mr. Llammerden slowly, “and 
said we were having great weather for the time of 
year.” 

“What the divil does that mean?” asked Paddy. 

Mr. Hammerden laughed shortly. 

“It means that he’s dangerous,” he replied grimly. 
“Damn’ dangerous.” 


CHAPTER XXV: Mr. Perch'd Bowes-Chevington 
Goes up One 

I N a shady corner of the old garden at “Braylings” 
six men sat around in portentous conference. The 
garden had been chosen because of Mr. Dargan’s reluc¬ 
tance to leave it; its old-world blaze of colour, green 
level lawns and quaintly-clipped shrubs were a never- 
ending delight to him. 

Nothing like it had ever before come within his ken 
—might never again; and he was out to rest his soul in 
content and feast his eyes upon its, to him, incontestable 
loveliness. 

“I reckon/’ he said to Jacob J. as they patrolled the 
lawn together—for once the magnate without his canine 
companion, who had deliriously deserted him upon the 
appearance of his own Great One—‘‘that this is where 
this little country has got us skinned to death, Mr. 
Schornhurst. I could stand aroun’ here and just watch 
’em grow all day long.” 

Hours, indeed, had the steely-eyed sleuth put in with 
this gardener and that, engrossed, to the exclusion of all 
other matters, in the simple gifts that Nature had to 
lay before him in such profuse and fragrant splendour. 

In a button-hole of his coat he wore a few quaint 
little pinks he had found in some undisturbed corner. 

And so, in deference to its charm for the New Yorker, 
this conference, so full of portent, and upon which so 
many hopes were resting, was held out in this sweet 
old spot over which, though his ears missed no uttered 

word and his brain concentrated upon the business under 

302 



CHEVINGTON GOES UP ONE 


303 


discussion, his half-closed eyes wandered lingeringly. 

Upon the arrival of John Hammerden’s two doughty 
lieutenants Mr. Dargan promptly collared his erstwhile 
assistant in the capture of’the bloody-handed Juan Bat¬ 
tista, and led him forth into congress. He had a pretty 
fair idea as to how matters stood in the Hammerden 
job, and by the time he had finished with the Honourable 
Mr. Blakeley he could have written an exhaustive epit¬ 
ome upon the case as viewed from any angle. Of which 
Mr. Blakeley had an uneasy suspicion, but knew himself 
to be helpless in the hands of this deadly persistent in¬ 
terrogator. Upon the matter of Mr. Poltaro’s coming 
attempt the American announced himself as highly de¬ 
lighted. Signor Poltaro was in close proximity to a 
bunch of trouble. 

“But we’ve got to go fly with this bird, Bill,” declared 
the New Yorker. “Pie missed you once, but he won’t 
again. No, sir.” 

“Am I in order to ask what—what you intend doing 
about other things?” inquired the Honourable Bill, with 
some little anxiety. 

Mr. Dargan took a squint at his companion. “No, 
Bill,” he answered, after a moment’s pause, “you’re not 
—just for the moment.” 

“This woman—” began the Honourable Bill. 

“Bill,” interrupted Mr. Dargan, laying a kindly hand 
upon his companion’s arm, “quit. There’s never any¬ 
thing gained by giving opinions. Opinions are often 
damagin’ information, and you ain’t wise to it. Now 
Pm not like old Joe Dobson—corking good man, Joe, 
and don’t forget it—I don’t want a yard of concrete 
handed to me with each fact; and this woman, Cheyenne 
Lou’s tale has fallen down and hurt itself badly; wounded 
itself mortally so far as your sister’s graft goes.” 

“Thank God!” uttered Mr. Blakeley fervently. 


304 


THE BIG HEART 


“Sure,” responded Mr. Dargan. “If it’s fell down 
there, how does it stand over this Haybridge job? Add 
the names of Derrick H. Levigne and ‘Frankie the Gun’ 
to the galaxy of talent, and it stands damn’ wobbly. 
That’s all I’ve got to say at present.” 

“Hammerden never committed that murder,” declared 
the Honourable Bill stoutly. 

Dargan looked at him with a twinkle at the corners 
of his mouth. 

“D’you know what’s up against that theory, Bill?” 
he inquired whimsically. 

“No,” said the Honourable Bill moodily. 

“A jury of twelve true an’ trusty bone-heads with 
their grey matter all complete, who said he did, and sent 
him to the chair. In the U. S. A. that goes.” 

And Mr. Blakeley had perforce to admit that Mr. 
Dargan’s argument was hopelessly and irrefutably un¬ 
answerable. 

Mr. Dobson at the conference had spoken long and 
earnestly—his black book greatly in evidence. Jacob J. 
Schornhurst had been brief and to the point; he stood 
behind his friend, John Hammerden, to his last dollar, 
and he wanted his daughter, and John Hammerden’s 
daughter, and the little Earl of Racedene produced forth¬ 
with. The reward he mentioned as being ready and 
waiting on the fructification of efforts in that direction 
staggered even Mr. Dargan, who was accustomed to the 
sound of big money. For the rest, Mr. Schornhurst 
was prepared to turn Heaven, Hell, or all the District 
Attorneys’ offices in the United States inside out but 
that he would prove John Hammerden’s innocence of 
the crime he was adjudged guilty of; and that was all 
there was to it. 

Mr. Courtenay contributed his quota, recounting in 
detail the happenings of the morning, and ending with 


CHEVINGTON GOES UP ONE 


305 


the dispatch of Abrahams upon the trail of the thick¬ 
eared man. 

"Is that that servant man you told me those yarns 
of?” demanded Mr. Schornhurst. "That Jew feller?” 

Mr. Courtenay intimated that it was. 

"He’ll get somewhere,” said the little man with certi¬ 
tude. "You watch it.” 

The Honourable Bill had little to say, beyond that he 
felt that whatever happened, the thick-eared man, upon 
evidence being forthcoming of the truth of his state¬ 
ments, must be got clear in some way. A sentiment 
endorsed heartily by the bereaved members of the con¬ 
gress, and to which even the precise Mr. Joseph Dobson 
offered no opposition. Up to the present moment Mr. 
Dargan had emitted no sound; neither affirmatively nor 
negatively had he uttered one syllable. 

Points that might have been supposed to concern him 
deeply seemed to evoke no interest: even the sight of 
Mr. Dobson’s black pocket-book failed to draw his at¬ 
tention from a tall cluster of many-coloured hollyhocks 
that reared their height against an old rust-coloured 
brick wall. 

John Hammerden leaned forward, his eyes upon the 
face of the silent and contemplative one. 

"As it stands now,” he commenced slowly, "the mat¬ 
ter, so far as I’m concerned, seems up to Mr. Dargan. 
He knows all there is to know. I’m in his hands.” 

The gentleman referred to slowly drew one of his in¬ 
evitable cheroots from his case, bit one end slowly and 
lit the other. 

"What did you say those tall flowers were called?” 
he inquired confidentially of Mr. Courtenay, who stared 
at him, utterly flabbergasted. 

“I—I didn’t say,” stammered Paddy; "but I think it’s 

hollyhocks.” 



306 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. Dargan nodded and resumed his inspection. 

“I reckon they’re the goods,” announced Mr. Dargan 
decisively. “I don’t remember seem’ any before, but 
they can have my money each and every time.” 

Mr. Dobson snapped his fingers a trifle impatiently: 
the others never moved. Mr. Dargan’s eyes roved to 
where a bright splash of blue cornflowers showed vividly 
against the green of a lawn-edge. 

“I don’t fancy we have any of them blue flowers to 
home, Mr. Schornhurst,” he observed. “If we have 
I’ve not seen them.” 

Mr. Schornhurst’s eyes twinkled slightly: he was be¬ 
ginning to get the measure of his compatriot. 

“Cornflowers,” he informed the enthusiast perfunc¬ 
torily. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Dargan. “Now I wonder what 
they’re called that for?” 

“Because they grow in the corn,” answered Mr. Dob¬ 
son, with the veriest shade of testiness. 

“Look at that now,” responded Mr. Dargan calmly. 
“There’s a bunch to learn about them flowers.” 

“Mr. Hammerden and all of us,” went on Mr. Dobson, 
fingering his book; this time with marked impatience, 
“are waiting to know your answer to his question.” 

Mr. Dargan removed his cigar and regarded his con¬ 
frere thoughtfully. 

“Goin’ to put what I say down in that dinky little 
book of yours, Joe?” he inquired whimsically. 

“No,” answered Mr. Dobson shortly. Dargan was a 
trifle too much for him at times. 

“Well, you ought to,” snapped the New Yorker sud¬ 
denly, “and paste it in your hat and study it. I was 
going to say that when a man in my position don’t want 
to give an opinion and don’t want to answer questions, 


CHEVINGTON GOES UP ONE 


307 


nobody but a darn’d fool or an Englishman would ever 
try to drag ’em out of him.” 

Mr. Dobson put his book away with a sigh of relief. 
“That’s all right, then,” he murmured; having gained 
his point, the rebuff did not distress him greatly. 

“Up to a point,” went on Mr. Dargan, “it is; and 
only up to a point. When you came to me in that hos¬ 
pital place, you asked me to lay low off Haybridge until 
you got the rings on the Howarth guy. I said I would. 
I could have told you then who Haybridge was. Well, 
have you got Howarth yet? Because, when you’re 
through with him, I want him. Looks to me this How¬ 
arth yegg is goin’ to be more interest to me than you.” 

Mr. Dargan tipped the ash from his cheroot and con¬ 
tinued slowly: 

“Eve had no instructions yet concerning the escaped 
man, Arthur Haybridge; when I do I’ll look me around 
a bit. Meantime Mr. John Hammerden is goin’ to be 
somewhere about this old garden—nothing surer, if he’s 
a wise man. If I should want a word with him on mat¬ 
ters, why—I’ll know where to find him. ... In the 
corn you say those blue flowers grow, Joe?” 

“They do,” assured Mr. Dobson smilingly. 

“My!” said Mr. Dargan. “If ever I have a place, it’s 
me for some of them kind.” 

By the window of his study Mr. Courtenay found the 
big man, lost in a brown study. There was a certain 
amount of nervous trepidation in his approach, and he 
addressed him with some diffidence. 

“I’m hoping we’ll have Penny back to ye by tomorrow 
at latest, sir,” he observed. 

Mr. Hammerden looked at him. 

“Who?” he asked. 

Mr. Courtenay flushed; his demeanour became even 


308 


THE BIG HEART 


more awkward, not to say hangdog; then with an effort 
he bucked himself up. 

“Penny/’ he repeated stoutly, looking his employer 
straight in the eye. 

“I hope so, too,” he answered with a sharp sigh. 

“Of course,” began Patrick, “of course, ye know Pm 
going to ask ye for her when I—when we do get her,” 
he bolted. 

“Oh,” said Mr. Hammerden calmly. “And supposing 
I don’t choose to give her? What happens then?” 

“Well, of course, then,” returned Mr. Courtenay 
blankly, “then I bolt with her—of course.” 

“Of course,” echoed the big man sarcastically. “And 
what do I do?” 

“I don’t know, Pm sure,” said Paddy, at a considerable 
loss. 

“I do,” observed Hammerden shortly. 

Mr. Patrick looked the last word in human depres¬ 
sion. “Well, whatever it is,” he said desperately, “ye’ll 
have to be damned smart to stop us, for ’tis all made 
up and settled and done with. I love her and she loves 
me—an’—an’—well, there ye are now. ’Tis new to 
you, of course—” 

“Pooh!” broke in the big man. “It’s been as plain 
to me from the day you arrived here, as the two black 
eyes you came with.” His tone changed, and he laid 
his hand upon the suitor’s shoulder. “Pm not against 
it, Paddy,” he said kindly. “Don’t think that. I’ll be 
only too glad to see my girl settled. You’ll have your 
hands full, I fancy,” he added with a sigh. “Women 
are strange beings.” 

“They are that,” corroborated Mr. Courtenay in the 
highest delight. 

“Yes,” repeated Mr. Hammerden, the far-away look 


CHEVINGTON GOES UP ONE 


309 


returning to his eyes, “they are—God knows they are. 
Good luck to you. Send Blakeley to me.” 

The golden afternoon had drawn well on by the time 
the Honourable Bill and his host had finished their con¬ 
ference in the shady study; and then Mr. Blakeley sat 
down and with many frowns and indications of strained 
mentality composed a long and difficult letter to his sister. 

Upon the lawn, in conference with Jacob J., Mr. Ham¬ 
mer den found the New York detective. 

“Blakeley and I have come to the conclusion,” he said 
slowly, “that his sister, the Countess of Racedene, had 
better be told the whole story of this business and that 
it had better be told by me personally.” 

“From the beginning, John?” asked Mr. Schornhurst 
thoughtfully. 

“From the beginning, in Texas,” answered the big 
man firmly. 

Dargan nodded. 

“That’s a wise move, Mr. Hammerden,” he said. 
“About the wisest that’s been made yet.” 

“You raise no objection to my going to Wiltshire?” 
asked the big man. 

Mr. Dargan flushed angrily. 

“Say,” he said perfunctorily, “when I trust a man 
I trust him.” 

“Thanks,” said Mr. Hammerden briefly. 

“When do you start, John?” asked Mr. Schornhurst. 

“Today. Blakeley’s writing me an introduction to his 
sister now. The sooner she knows the whole truth and 
her mind is relieved, the better.” 

“That’s so,” agreed the little Money King. “I wish 
to the Lord some one would relieve mine.” 

Mr. Dargan laughed shortly. 

“Mr. Schornhurst,” he observed grimly, “once let us 


310 


THE BIG HEART 


little lot close our hands on Signor Poltaro, and I don’t 
reckon you’ll have to worry long.” 

They were well upon the road in the moonlight before 
Mr. Dargan, in the rear of the motor, leapt to his feet 
with a sudden spring that nearly threw him from the big 
open car. 

“Joe,” he whispered nervously to his companion, “what 
the devil’s that under our feet?” 

Mr. Dobson, drawing from his pocket a flash lamp, 
stooped and examined the cause of Mr. Dargan’s dis¬ 
comfiture. He found himself peering into one piercing 
black eye which regarded him unblinkingly. 

“It’s that bull-terrier—the one that tackled Howarth 
and the rest of the gang!” 

“Joe,” answered Mr. Dargan solemnly, “don’t you 
tell me dogs don’t know what’s going on. That’s a 
fighting dog; he knows we’re going to get to grips; and 
he’s going to be in at it.” 

“Shall we let Courtenay know he’s here?” asked Mr. 
Dobson. 

“Not a sound!” uttered Mr. Dargan. “That dog’s 
got something to pay back. I wouldn’t rob him of his 
mouthful of the swine for all the money in Wall Street.” 

In Town they drove first to the Club for word of the 
Major—of which there was none—and then to Mr. 
Courtenay’s rooms, where by telegram and telephone a 
conclave of the elect had been called. This, with Mr. 
Rattray still sojourning in Wiltshire to orders, and the 
Major in limbo for all any one knew to the contrary, 
left only Mr. James Carrington, Mr. Ferriby and the 
ubiquitous Bowes-Chevington. Of this worthy trio 
Messrs. Carrington and Ferriby alone had responded, 
and were engaged in the fascinating pursuit of chuck- 
ha’penny upon Mr. Courtenay’s hearthrug when the 
party arrived. Of B.-C. they had no knowledge what- 



CHEVINGTON GOES UP ONE 


311 


ever. Mr. Ferriby had been to bis rooms, to find him 
non est; none knew why or whither. 

Mr. Dargan, as best suited to deal with the variety 
of fray looming imminent, laid his plans for the seiz¬ 
ure of Mr. Poltaro, and made his disposition. 

It was arranged that Messrs. Carrington and Ferriby, 
—who seized upon the honour with avidity,—being the 
slightest, and thus presenting the lesser target to the deadly 
gunman—should first negotiate the narrow stairway 
leading to Mr. Blakeley’s chambers with as much in¬ 
souciance as they could command. When upon the land¬ 
ing, they would grapple with the marauder sufficiently 
to disconcert his aim; to be reinforced instantly by the 
company in full strength. Mr. Dargan laid stress upon 
the certainty of the attack, for if the gunman once got 
his weapons free upon that narrow staircase, Kingdom 
Come would of a surety be the address of the majority 
at brief notice. 

The party, at about the hour of ten o’clock, converged 
upon the ground of battle by devious routes, and the un¬ 
daunted light-weights, with the leisurely bearing of gen¬ 
tlemen strolling into the stalls of the latest revue, made 
their intrepid ascent. They were followed, at a sign 
from Mr. Dargan, by a rush of four as determined gen¬ 
tlemen as were to be found in London that night; their 
rear flanked by a bull-terrier whose looks did not belie 
him. Nothing happened. Upon the landing the six 
stood and gazed at one another in mystified silence. 

“Soaked!” grunted Mr. Dargan at length. 

Mr. Dobson produced his flash lamp; Old Punch was 
sniffing about the landing noisily. 

“Something’s been here,” announced Mr. Dobson, 
picking up a button from a male coat. Upon the floor 
was a large, wet stain. Mr. Dargan, upon his knees, 
sniffed at it carefully. 



312 


THE BIG HEART 


“Beer,” he decided, “and bottle broken. ” He picked 
up a piece of glass. “It’s been cleaned up by some one,” 
he said, “not so long since.” 

Old Punch was whining and scratching at the Hon¬ 
ourable Mr. Blakeley’s door, which suddenly flew open to 
discover Mr. Clamper in his shirt-sleeves, and in his 
good right hand a solid oaken club. 

“What’s the mess here, Clamper?” demanded his em¬ 
ployer. 

“Beer, sir,” responded Mr. Clamper promptly. “Mr. 
Bowes-Chevington’s inside. He’ll explain, sir. Eve¬ 
nin’, gen’men all.” 

In Mr. Blakeley’s sitting-room, bound hand and foot 
upon the hearthrug—and gagged with a bath sponge— 
lay the missing Signor Francesco Poltaro; his eyes red 
with burning rage and hatred, and speaking most elo¬ 
quently the language denied his lips by the succulent 
sponge. Upon the table, loaded in every chamber, lay 
two sinister-looking automatic revolvers. 

Seated, in cross-legged tailor fashion, upon Mr. Blake¬ 
ley’s divan, vainly endeavouring to do a little tailoring 
upon a coat that was ripped up the back from bottom 
to collar, and was in shreds in other directions, was the 
monocled Mr. Percival Bowes-Chevington. He waved 
a tol-lollish hand towards the assembly, and grinned like 
a man who has had an enjoyable time. 

“Ah, there, old things,” he greeted affably. “Can 
any of you bounders thread me a needle? Italiano there 
has brought me unstitched.” 

“How the blazes did you get him?” demanded the 
mystified owner of the apartments. 

“Easy,” answered Mr. Bowes-Chevington calmly. 
“Got your wire and didn’t quite understand it, so blew 
round early, found this blighter on the stairs, and rec¬ 
ognized him from your description. Knew he was up 


CHEVINGTON GOES UP ONE 


313 


to no bally good, so I worded him. He gave me lip and 
I went for him—an’ that’s about all. You’ll have to 
stand me a new suit, old bean,” he added in an aggrieved 
tone; “you really will. This one’s dished.” 

“D’ ye mean you took him single-handed?” gasped 
Paddy. 

“Well—not altogether,” responded the amateur tailor. 
“He was giving me plenty, though I think I had him 
nicely in hand. Clamper heard the din and rolled along. 
With great forethought be brought a loaded pint bottle 
of Bass along, and dotted him one on the brow with 
it;—after that he dropped off to bye-byes. Then we 
lugged him in here, found the armoury and trussed him 
like a—a capon—for further orders. Shockin’ waste 
of beer, though, but couldn’t be helped.” 

Mr. Dargan stepped forward and studied Mr. Bowes- 
Chevington with the air of a man walking in his sleep. 

“Do I get it right that you tackled Frankie Poltaro 
single-handed?” he asked. 

“Why not?” queried Mr. Bowes-Chevington in return. 

Mr. Dargan turned to an armchair and sat heavily. 
Bowes-Chevington was too much for him. 

“Bill,” he said weakly, “I’d like a drink. This friend 
of yours has got me beat all the way home. I don’t 
know where you people grow these Eyeglass Kids”— 
here he turned his eyes again upon the worried Percival, 
struggling with his refractory needle—“but, by heck, 
you grow ’em good!” 



CHAPTER XXVI: Mr. Isidore Abrahams Con¬ 
founds his Detractors and Proves his Quality 

I N the long drawing-room at “Claverings” Mr. John 
Hammerden stood by a window looking out across 
the broad park-lands that ran down to the little stream. 

Across the room from him, her beautiful face paled 
by her illness and carking anxiety, sat the Countess; in 
her hand the letter written to her at “Braylings” by her 
brother. Her wistful eyes were fastened upon the broad 
back of the man standing before her, as though seeking 
to realize for herself what manner of man was this who 
had come to her out of the shadow, bringing with him 
hope. 

That he was sincere, shielding himself in nothing that 
might be to his detriment, she needed no telling. The 
whole man was honest and compelling; and in this re¬ 
opening of a chapter of his life that touched hers, had 
sought to tell his story with restraint and gentle tact for 
her feelings. 

And Bill, her brother and one staunch, unswerving 
friend—he had sent John Hammerden to her, and sent 
him with a passport of honour and admiration greater 
than which no man could write of his friend. 

Through all this terrible trial this man had been work¬ 
ing unceasingly; bringing to bear all the resources of 
his great power and wealth upon their behalf—hers and 
her boy’s. Had taken upon himself the shielding of 
them; to avert the evil that, in some vaguely understood 
way, he deemed himself responsible for. He, unknown 
to her, had with her brother and his devoted friends 

314 



ABRAHAMS PROVES HIS QUALITY 315 


been fighting the battle for her honour and her son’s 
heritage. And, through it all, as she remembered with 
a sudden pang of sympathy, he himself was suffering 
keenly at the hands of these people. Yet he had thought 
as much for her affliction as for his own, and at the 
risk of jeopardizing liberty, perhaps life, was—so she 
understood from Bill’s letter—casting all to one side 
to help her. 

That he was innocent she had no doubt. To look at 
the rugged, honest face of the big man was to need no 
telling. There was truth in every line—conviction in 
every note of his voice. 

And yet, if this John Hammer den’s news was right— 
and her brother’s letter confirmed it—at any day her 
Eric might be restored to her, and the good, beneficent 
God, to Whom she had prayed unceasingly, answer her 
stricken prayer. 

She fingered the letter lying in her lap and wondered 
if he knew its contents. She thought not. There were 
things there that she scarcely comprehended herself; 
vague subtleties—unlike Bill completely—but which she 
felt were due to the stress in which he had written the 
letter. Was it something that he was trying to tell her, 
for which he could find no method of expression and 
which, therefore, had eluded her? She wondered. 

Hammerden, with a slight sigh, turned again and 
faced her. 

“Is there anything,” he asked gently, “that you would 
wish me to explain to you—anything that is not quite 
clear? It is an intricate story, difficult to grasp at one 
blunt telling. I am quite at your service to answer any¬ 
thing you may wish to ask me. I came here with that 
object—that you might know the truth of me and your 
position. Ask, and I will answer.” 

Lady Racedene shook her head slowly. “I think that 




316 


THE BIG HEART 


I know everything of the—the story of what has gone,” 
she answered him, “and enough of what is here to bring 
me hope. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you.” 

Hammerden raised a deprecating hand. 

“Forget that,” he said vehemently. “Remember that 
I had to shield myself—and in the doing have necessarily 
aided you. That it has done so is my great honour.” 

“I cannot see it in that way,” she returned quickly. 
“My brother has told me . . .” She broke off suddenly, 
and for a moment showed some trifling confusion. 
“There is one thing I would ask you,” she said hastily. 

Hammerden bowed. “And that is—?” 

“Were the contents of my brother’s letter known to 
you?” 

Hammerden shook his head in some surprise. 

“Why, no,” he answered slowly. “I understood it to 
be just a letter of introduction—a foreword that would 
warn you of what my business with you was—and save 
you the pain of a sudden blunt disclosure. Why do you 
ask?” 

There was something so simple, so obviously surprised 
in his denial that there was no room for doubt in her 
mind but that he was quite innocent of whatever mes¬ 
sage her brother was trying to convey to her. He was 
very handsome, she thought idly, in his rough-hewn, 
determined way: that he was a gentleman in his every 
instinct her own knowledge and experience of the world 
made very plain to her. A gentleman—as was Bill, 
Mr. Desmond, Mr. Courtenay, and others of her 
brother’s friends: men that she knew and liked and 
trusted. 

She caught his frank grey eyes, and found that he 
had been regarding her steadily. 

“You have not yet answered my question,” he re- 


ABRAHAMS PROVES HIS QUALITY 317 


minded her quietly. “Why did you ask if I knew the 
contents of your brother’s letter?” 

“I—I cannot exactly say,” she answered him, some¬ 
what startled. “A woman’s whim, if you like. You 
make so light of what you have already done for me 
that—that I am perhaps at a loss to understand . . 

He moved restlessly. 

“Does it matter, so long as what I may have chanced 
to do has been of service to you and your boy?” 

“But—but why?” she asked him, with a little air of 
helpless struggling for further expression that touched 
him mightily. 

“Need there be a 'why’?” he asked. “Must every 
motive—things that are of myself, my inner self alone, 
be laid bare before I can obey the instinct that urges 
me to the service of—of you and yours?” 

She smiled at him, her great sad eyes resting upon 
his face with a kindly trustfulness that warmed his whole 
being. 

“I see the nobleness of what you have done; the gen¬ 
erosity you are offering; but I still do not understand— 
why.” 

“Do not ask,” he answered her abruptly. “Believe 
only this—that I seek to serve you in whatever way may 
become me—and you. The why of it is not for us now 
to discuss. One day, perhaps,” he said slowly, “and 
perhaps never. Your brother understands. You trust 
him?” 

“Implicitly,” she answered wonderingly. 

“One day he may think it right to explain. Until 
that time, look upon me simply as your friend and your 
child’s—and trust me.” 

“I do,” she answered, offering him her hand. “I am 
sure that you will never fail me.” 



318 


THE BIG HEART 


He took her hand and bowed over it deeply. 

“Never/’ he answered with an infinity of gentleness, 
wonderful to her in so rugged a man. “Never—by 
God. I may perhaps bring the boy to you when he is 
in their hands?” 

“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed with eager, lighted eyes. 
“Yes. Who would have a better right than you? Yes, 
I shall be waiting—oh, so anxiously.” 

“And after? I may sometimes come to see him— 
and you?” 

“When you will,” she told him simply, a faint flush 
upon her face. “We shall be always glad of your com¬ 
ing.” 

“God bless you,” he said huskily. “Good-bye.” 

“Au revoir, good friend,” she answered softly. “And 
I will trust you always.” 

At a bend in the great drive she watched him turn and 
wave a hand cheerily to her. She stepped from the long 
window and answered his salute, then stood upon the 
terrace long after he had disappeared through the mighty 
oaks of the parklands; musing upon him and the message 
that had proved so evasive in the letter of her trusted 
brother, Bill. 

The brave-hearted, but worried, ones, having satis¬ 
factorily accounted for all the bottled beer in Mr. Blake¬ 
ley’s cellaret, likewise all that could be borrowed from 
the adjacent Mr. Halloby, were now partaking of coffee, 
brewed by the fair hand of Mr. Joseph Clamper, and 
hoping for better times. 

A third degree examination of Signor Poltaro by 
Mr. Dargan—a ruthless business, but necessary under 
the circumstances—evoked nothing; nothing but a stub¬ 
born silence. His pockets, however, gave better results ; 
sufficient to ensure him, when transported, a long sojourn 



ABRAHAMS PROVES HIS QUALITY 319 


among the elite of Sing Sing; but of the whereabouts 
of the missing ones, no sign or trace whatever. 

Mr. Dobson invoking a squad of his underlings by 
telephone, and the inartistic but extremely effective bind¬ 
ings of Mr. Clamper being replaced by neat steel brace¬ 
lets, the enterprising Italian was led forth to durance 
vile. 

Mr. Dobson, after a perusal of the fragmentary docu¬ 
ments taken from the gunman, observed that the hour 
was indubitably propitious for putting a spoke in the 
wheel of the worthy Signor Enrico Spodani; and de¬ 
parted to set the wheels in motion. He would return 
in the early morning upon the chance that some com¬ 
munication had arrived from the absent Abrahams—a 
contingency, however, which he gave them fully to 
understand, he considered extremely unlikely. Mr. Dob¬ 
son knew the Abrahams family of London, when allowed 
abroad with another person’s ten pounds in their pockets, 
sufficiently well to prophesy with certainty. Mr. Courte¬ 
nay, in his opinion, had seen the last of his ten pounds 
and also of Mr. Abrahams for some time—unless Mr. 
Dobson or his merry men could drop across him. 

“And don’t forget to put that hash-foundry well 
through the sieve, Joe,’’ urged Mr. Dargan in parting 
injunction. 

“You go and teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” 
retorted Mr. Dobson from the landing. 

“Sure,” said Mr. Dargan with an equable grin, “only 
do it. There’s a nice little nest of birds there.” 

“All the same,” he continued to Mr. Courtenay, when 
the door had closed upon the departed guest, “I reckon 
Joe’s about right. You’ve been stung, and the schonk 
has done a skiddoo with your mazuma.” 

“Don’t you believe it,” responded Patrick with abso¬ 
lute conviction. “I know Abrahams.” 



320 


THE BIG HEART 


“You’re askin’ a lot from a down-an’-out guy like 
that,” said Mr. Dargan. “He may be honest enough 
any other time, but . . 

“He isn’t,” interrupted Paddy. “He’s the biggest liar, 
thief and general all-round scoundrel unhung. That’s 
why Pm sure of him.” 

“What are you getting at?” exclaimed Mr. Dargan in 
perplexity. “If lie’s a hook, he’s skated with your ten.” 

“Skate with ten I gave him for expenses,” declared 
Paddy, “and leave a hundred behind! Not Abrahams. 
xAmnybody else ye like—not him. He’ll stick to me for 
that hundred if he has to tear it from me limb from 
limb.” 

“There’s that to it, certainly,” admitted Mr. Dargan. 
“And he’s a fly guy ye tell me?” 

Mr. Courtenay leaned forward and tapped w r ith em¬ 
phasis upon Mr. Dargan’s broad knee. 

“For all that I was so sorry for him when I saw him 
in that condition, I say this for him without fear of 
contradiction from anny man. He is, bar none, the 
most cunning, underhanded, lying, thieving, marauding 
and malignering rat that ever wore the King’s uniform. 
He’s the champion swindler of—of the world,” de¬ 
clared Patrick with conviction. 

“He is, is he?” replied Mr. Dargan. “Then there’s 
hope. That’s the kind that brings home the bacon.” 

A violent rat-tat upon the door awoke them from 
various positions of drowsiness, and brought Clamper 
from his kitchen and the frying of bacon with a rush. 

It was a telegram addressed to Captain Courtenay, 
care of the Honourable William Blakeley, put in at Til¬ 
bury at five minutes to eight the previous evening—too 
late for transmission. It ran as follows: 

“Meet me Tilbury Station ten tomorrow night come strong 
big gang bring stuff for dog Abrahams.” 


ABRAHAMS PROVES HIS QUALITY 321 


“What did I tell ye ?” demanded Patrick triumphantly. 
“An’ what the divil does he mean by stuff for dog?” 

“Poison, you can bet your life,” answered Mr. Dar- 
gan. “We’ll tote it along on chance.” 

“Two big cars, Ferriby,” ordered Paddy excitedly. 
“Limousines. You’ll take one and Bill the other. Let’s 
see—there’ll be . . He ran a finger over the as¬ 
sembly . . . “five, and Dobson makes six. We’ll leave 
here at eight tonight.” 

Mr. Clamper, a frying-pan of sizzling bacon in his 
right hand, and upon his classic features an expression 
of the most profound disapproval, approached Mr. 
Courtenay to the detriment of that gentleman’s clothing. 

“You ain’t leaving me aht o’ this little packet, Mr. 
Courtenay?” he exclaimed. 

“It’ll be a rough job,” warned Mr. Dargan, eyeing 
Mr. Clamper with a beaming eye. 

“Accordin’ t’ you so was the Eyetalian bloke,” retorted 
Mr. Clamper, in his anxiety somewhat lacking in re¬ 
spect. “I’ll bet it ain’t so rough as wot that female lady 
was; t’ say nothink of bein’ bit t’rouh the leg by a 
bleedin’ young savidge. Any’ow, I’m agoin’,” asserted 
Mr. Clamper. 

“Clamper,” interrupted the Honourable Bill, “you’ve 
been listening. 

“Yussir,” answered Mr. Clamper truculently, “and 
I’m agoin’, if I tails up in a taxi on my own, and gets 
the push immederate.” 

Having launched his mutinous ukase, the begruntled 
server of three stretches for R. with V. retired with 
his bacon in good formation. 

“I’ll ’phone Sunbury and telegraph my sister,” said 
the Honourable Bill. “I wonder how Hammerden s 
gone on in Wiltshire?” he added thoughtfully. 

“In what way?” inquired Mr. Bowes-Chevington idly. 


322 


THE BIG HEART 


“Mind your own business,” answered the Honourable 
Bill bluntly. 

“Don’t be angry, pretty,” murmured Mr. Bowes- 
Chevington with a grin. “I’m goin’ in to your tailors 
during the morning, to order a new suit.” 

At ten-thirty, as the party was upon the point of 
breaking up, a second telegram arrived from Tilbury, 
a cryptical document save to those who were in the know. 

“Following mine last night inspected property large house 
very strong bit garden high walls observe two girls parties 
rough Italians dog large savage gates chained dont forget 
meat for same station ten bring James and tools. Abrahams.” 

“Who the devil does he mean by James?” inquired 
Mr. Carrington. “Me ?” 

“He means Joe,” came in a fierce whisper from the 
kitchen. “Joe Clamper.” 

“He means a jemmy and tools to break in,” corrected 
Mr. Dargan. “Couldn’t very well wire that openly. 
They’d have had him inside pretty quick. I take back 
what I said about Abey. For a down-and-out bum he’s 
panned out to the good.” 

“Down-and-out!” exclaimed Mr. Courtenay. “By this 
time tomorrow he’ll be a man of substance looking for 
a business.” 

“Sure,” said Mr. Dargan laconically; “if something 
don’t get him in the rough-up tonight, or Jake Schorn- 
hurst don’t give him a couple of Banks to play with, 
and ruin the poor guy,” he added. 


CHAPTER XXVII: Exit Jeremiah McGraw Esquire 

I T would be difficult to express adequately the state 
of the feelings of either Messrs. Courtenay or Blake¬ 
ley as the Honourable Bill swung the powerful limousine,, 
of which he and Paddy formed the outside passengers, 
slowly past the station at Tilbury upon this flawless 
moonlit night. Inside reposed Mr. Dargan, and upon 
the seat beside him, his one optic glued upon the back 
of Mr. Courtenays’ head, which he could see through 
the bevelled glass front, sat the bull-terrier, Old Punch. 

The still larger car, following at a judicious dis¬ 
tance, piloted by the skilled hand of Mr. Ferriby, con¬ 
tained an unusual amount of avoirdupois. In addition 
to Mr. Joseph Dobson and Mr. Carrington V.C. were 
two gentlemen of immense brawn, who had disguised 
themselves as navvies. The unconquerable Joseph 
Clamper, armed with his trusty piece of oak, shared 
the front with Mr. Ferriby in supreme and undiluted 
content. 

Mr. Dargan had elected to travel alone; giving forth 
that he needed to think over his final plans; in reality 
he wanted to escape from any possibility of being upset 
by Mr. Dobson’s little black pocket-book, which he felt 
would be tremendously in evidence. Therefore he took 
the dog under his charge and, spreading himself well 
over the upholstery, travelled in luxurious solitude. 

The inclusion of Old Punch in the entourage had not 
been by any wish of his owner. Indeed, Patrick had 
raised several objections to his going. These, however, 
had been overruled by Mr. Dargan, who held strongly 
for the canine addition. 


323 


324 


THE BIG HEART 


“We’ve got a dog to handle,” he urged, “and, from 
what we know of it, a big, savage brute. It’ll be bright 
moonlight, and we daren’t risk a shot. If it’s a real 
savage one, it won’t stop to toy around with poison; it 
will go for what it sees. There’s nothing will keep a 
dog like that from barking like a dog to sniff around and 
snarl at it. That will give one of us a chance to soak 
it one on the bean quietly.” 

“But ye don’t follow me,” protested Paddy worriedly. 
“If he was fit and strong, I’d not be saying a word. 
But he’s not, yet, and—” 

“Cut it,” said Mr. Dargan bluntly. “This guy’ll or¬ 
der the coroner for any big, yelping mongrel they’ve 
got round that joint. I know the sort—all bark and 
‘Oh, mummer, he’s bit me!’ You let him come. It’ll 
do him a ton of good—and mebbe us as well.” 

The Honourable Bill was slowing down by the station, 
when a furtive-looking object, attired in a new shop- 
made suit which accentuated the cadaverousness of his 
hawklike face, sprang upon the foot-board, and with a 
frenzied gesture to the driver to keep going, swung 
open the door and fell inside—to narrowly avert sudden 
extermination at the teeth of Old Punch, who exhibited 
great resentment at this unprecedented mode of arrival. 

“Abrahams,” fired the detective, gripping the dog by 
the collar firmly. 

“Yessir,” emitted the agile one, frozen with terror. 

“Good man,” commended Mr. Dargan; and Old 
Punch, perceiving that all was well, subsided with gut¬ 
tural growlings and mutterings of disapproval. 

Mr. Abrahams, speaking at the tube quickly, gave his 
instructions to turn at the nearest corner and stop; in¬ 
structions immediately obeyed, and followed by the car 
behind, which stuck closely to Mr. Blakeley’s pilotage. 

“Nah, sir,” said Abrahams to Mr. Courtenay. “The 




EXIT JEREMIAH McGRAW 


325 


bloke I shaddered is on the station this minnit. I don’t 
fink Vs goin’ away; I fancy he’s waiting for somebody. 
There’s sunnink gorn wrong up at the ’ouse we’re agoin’ 
to—somebody ain’t turned up, as far as I can make out, 
wot they bin expecting.” 

“Poltaro,” uttered Messrs. Dargan and Courtenay as 
one voice. 

“This bloke,” continued the watchful one, “ ’as been 
up twice today and waited a long time, then ’opped it 
back. You can get ’im nah if y’ wants him.” 

“Blaby,” said Mr. Dobson, addressing his two eager 
navigators, “and you, Atkinson, slip across to the station 
—see the station-master, give him my card. This 
chap’ll point your man out. Nip him quick and into the 
station-master’s office with him till I come. Make sure 
of him, but don’t knock him about. Better bracelet him, 
to make certain.” 

“One minute,” intervened Paddy anxiously, catching a 
quick look of extreme meaning from the Honourable 
Mr. Blakeley. “It’s quite understood that, so far as 
we’re concerned—I speak for John Hammerden and Mr. 
Schornhurst, as well as Mr. Blakeley and myself—there’ll 
be no charge made against this man. We —zve think—” 

“I think,” broke in Mr. Dargan shortly, “that you’re 
damned fools.” 

“What about her ladyship?” asked Mr. Dobson. 

The Honourable Bill shook his head. 

“There’ll be no charge against him from any of us,” 
he said determinedly. “One good turn deserves another. 
But for him, perhaps—” He broke off suddenly. 
“There’ll be no charge; that’s all.” 

“Y’know, Bill,” observed Mr. Dargan pityingly, 
“you’re gone soft on this yegg because he seems to have 
behaved white to these girls.” 

“If one of them was the lady you were going to marry, 


326 


THE BIG HEART 


Dargan,” answered the Honourable Bill stoutly, “wouldn’t 
you r 

“Mebbe,” said Mr. Dargan with a grimace. “I 
ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t. Well, there’s no kick cornin’ from 
me, Bill. It’s up to Joe.” 

Mr. Dobson shrugged his shoulders. “Not much good 
my taking him, if no one’s going to charge him. I ex¬ 
pect you’d put up a K.C. or two to defend him?” he 
asked grimly of Paddy. 

“A-dozen!” said Paddy stoutly. “The finest money 
could get.” 

“What do you want me to do?” asked Mr. Dobson 
curtly. 

“Take him, just as you’ve given instructions,” Paddy 
interjected quickly; “then lend us the key of the hand¬ 
cuffs for ten minutes.” 

Mr. Dobson took from his pocket his own cuffs, 
handed then to one of his men, and passed the key to 
Mr. Courtenay. 

“You’re a pair of idiots,” he said wearily; “but I sup¬ 
pose there’s nothing else to be done.” 

“Divil th’ thing,” replied Mr. Courtenay, with his en¬ 
gaging grin. “And thank ye.” 

Mr. Dobson nodded to his two assistants, and they 
started on their errand. 

“One minute,” said Mr. Dargan, recalling them. “If 
you’ll stand on me,” he advised earnestly, “you’ll take 
him from behind and make sure of his wrists. And if 
he gets one hand free after you’ve made your grab—say 
all the prayers you can remember. You’ll sure need them. 
That’s all.” 

With which earnest advice in their ears, they departed 
upon their mission. 

Up and down the platform Paddy and the Honourable 
Bill lounged, waiting for Mr. Dargan to conclude a little 


EXIT JEREMIAH McGRAW 


327 


examination of the delinquent upon which he had insisted. 

“How are ye,” ventured Patrick in a confidential whis¬ 
per, and a glance towards the two stalwarts standing 
guard over the outer portal of the station-master’s office, 
“how are ye for money?” 

“Plenty,” returned the Honourable Bill gruffly. “I 
wrote a cheque today.” 

Mr. Courtenay fished in the pocket of his old tweed 
suit. “Ye’ll give him this from—from annybody,” he 
said, thrusting a carefully-folded packet upon his 
companion. “ ’Twill help him to a new start,” he 
added. 

“If he goes that way,” rejoined Mr. Blakeley thought¬ 
fully. 

“Even if he doesn’t, he may as well go to the devil on 
a full stomach as an empty one,” said Paddy practically. 
“We owe him that, annyway.” 

Mr. Blakeley nodded; he was trying to think of argu¬ 
ments to impress the gentle-souled McGraw with to that 
desirable end. 

The office door opened, and Mr. Dargan came forth— 
upon his face was the disgruntled expression of a man 
who has received a sudden and violent mental shock. 
He came at once towards them. 

“Well?” asked Paddy eagerly. 

“That guy,” answered Mr. Dargan bluntly, “has got 
me beat—licked fair and square.” 

“You got nothing from him concerning the others?” 

“Yes,” replied the American shortly. “I got told to 
go to hell.” 

“Good man,” commented Mr. Blakeley. 

“Oh, I ain’t squealing,” returned Mr. Dargan imper¬ 
turbably. “But I figured I might worm something out— 
and I have.” 

“What was that?” inquired both listeners eargerly. 


328 


THE BIG HEART 


“Before that note was written there’d been a row up 
at this joint; Howarth, it seems, took a fancy to Miss— 
Miss Schornhurst, and wanted some keepin’ away from 
her.” 

“Well?” snapped the Honourable Bill, who had gone 
very pale. “Get on, man—get on!” 

“Breathe easy,” observed Mr. Dargan calmly. “He 
got kept.” 

“Thank God!” said the Honourable Bill. “McGraw?” 

Mr. Dargan nodded. 

“First time, yes. He stopped him quick. Second 
time—” Mr. Dargan paused and flung a quick eye 
towards where Mr. Dobson was either consulting or 
directing his navigators—“McGraw was away up town. 
Seems he gave the kid—the Earl—his auto-gun, and un¬ 
locked a door that connected between the two apartments 
they were planted in, and wised the youngster what to do. 
Howarth made his break and . . .” 

“Do you mean the boy—little Eric—?” broke in Paddy, 
horror-stricken. 

“That kid,” answered Mr. Dargan with deliberation, 
“is sure one game small boy. He stood up to the ‘breed’ 
and unloosed his gun—soaked it to him good and proper. 
Howarth’s dying—according to McGraw, he won’t last 
out the night. He’s had no attention. Levigne wouldn’t 
have a doctor there—looked too fishy, I guess. If we’re 
goin’ to get anything out of Howarth about this Hay- 
bridge job, we’ve got to get in quick. Better go in and 
see him. I’ve handed him a dead straight line of talk, 
and it sounds like he was through with this game. That’s 
why he never put up a fight on those burlies of Joe’s. 
Seems he knew the game was up. I can’t get at what’s 
eatin’ that Jerry guy at all. Search me.” 

“Does he know we’re going to let him go?” asked the 
Honourable Bill quickly. 


EXIT JEREMIAH McGRAW 


329 


Mr. Dargan grinned. “No; you can give him the gay 
news yourselves.” 

Turning the key in the lock, Paddy and the Honourable 
Bill slipped quietly into the office. Seated in a chair, his 
hands cuffed behind him, his hat upon a table near by, was 
the prisoner McGraw. There was something terribly 
pitiful in the dejected droop of the broad shoulders; 
something that touched instantly the hearts of them both 
as the door closed softly behind them and the lock clicked 
ominously upon the outside. He glanced up wearily as 
they entered, then started awkwardly to his feet, the 
ghost of his old grin flickering wanly a moment at his 
mouth. 

“Say, boys,” he said, with the faintest twinkle of his 
tired eyes, “youse come in on tha las’ gong, an’ I’m sure 
tha lil’ guy what’s on the blink. It’s me fer de ol’ Sing 
Sing place up the river when they hike me back, an’ 
McGraw shares is sure down to ten cen’s a bundle.” 

“Turn round,” ordered the Honourable Bill shortly. 

“Them goofs got me so fixed that they’ll think they’re 
the clever guys all th’ way home to their mommers,” 
grinned Mr. McGraw cheerlessly. “They wasn’t wise I 
never meant makin’ no kick. I knew trouble wuz ’round 
—an’—aw, what th’ hell—” he exclaimed suddenly, as 
the Honourable Bill slipped his cuffs and tossed them upon 
the table. “Say,” he whispered, looking from the bright, 
sinister little instruments to the two men before him, 
his eyes widening with every second, “ain’t youse—ain’ 
that bull—that Dargan—ain' you ... ?” He broke off 
and waited in speechless wonder. 

“You can go when you like, Jerry,” announced the 
Honourable Bill quietly. “We’ll call it square with you.” 

“And for the love of heaven, man!” beseeched Paddy, 
almost with tears in his eyes, “try the—the straight 
game. Ye’ll be all right if ye’ll only try.” 


330 


THE BIG HEART 


Mr. McGraw gazed at them silently for a moment, 
then sank into his chair; upon his face an expression of 
the most unparalleled amazement. 

“Well/’ he whispered slowly, “youse guys knows what 
I done, an’ youse hands me this skidoo stuff?” 

“Jerry,” said the Honourable Bill steadily, laying a 
hand upon his shoulder. “You’re not the first man that’s 
got off the straight track, and you won’t be the last,” 
he went on slowly, “to get back to it. It’s always there, if 
a man’s game to try to find it.” 

Mr. McGraw looked at him a moment incredulously, 
—then stared again into the empty fireplace. 

“That’s so,” he answered musingly. “Yes, I reckon 
that cert’nly is so. If—if a guy’s game.” 

“Will ye try it?” demanded Paddy anxiously. “Man, 
don’t throw away the chance that’s given ye.” 

For some thirty seconds Mr. McGraw stared in silence 
into the fireplace, then he rose and shook his great 
shoulders back. 

“I’m standin’ in wit' th’ angels,” he said whimsically. 
“It’s me f’r that lil’ halo every time.” 

“Good,” said Mr. Blakeley heartily, with a deep breath 
of relief. “Now, first thing, you’ll want money. You 
can’t . . .” 

“Cut that!” interrupted the convert fiercely. “I dunno 
what youse guys plays me for if ya reckon I’m breakin’ 
inta your bank f’r a start. Forgit it!” 

“But you must have something ” protested Paddy. 

“Look!’’ answered McGraw, pulling out a note-case, 
and slipping a finger and thumb through its contents; 
“I got twenty poun’ in my wad what’s gotta do. I ain’ 
takin’ nuttin’ fr'm nobody. If this ain’ gonna git me 
t’roo, I go under; but I ain’ playin’ piker to a guy what’s 
done me fair, so forgit it! Get me? That goes!” 

He replaced his case and picked up his hat from the 


EXIT JEREMIAH McGRAW 


331 


table; there was a finality and determination about his 
square jaw that brooked no further discussion of the 
financial point. 

Mr. Courtenay took his packet of notes from the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill’s hand and regarded them moodily. 

“I—I’ll not argue with ye,” he began in a diffident way. 
‘‘I respect ye for it; but if at anny time these are anny 
good to ye, I’ll be—I mean that they’re there for ye, an’ ” 
—he suddenly extended a frank hand, which Mr. McGraw 
gripped like a vice—“thank ye—for the help and kind¬ 
ness—” 

“Forgit it, bo,” uttered Mr. McGraw simply. “I ain’t 
a guy to stan’ f’r dames like them bein’ done dirt ta. 
Nix. Because they gotta bunch o’ trouble on, it don’t 
say what they ain’ class. Way up, them two, all the 
time. Same that kiddo—what’s his Earldom. Gee, me 
an’ that kid sure hit it good.” There was a strange 
wistfulness about his voice as he expatiated upon his 
small lordship that was not lost upon his listeners. “I’m 
sure sorry I ain’ gonna see him no more. He an’ me 
was good pals. He kinda trusted ol’ Jerry. B’lieved 
what I tol’ him—what was a bunch o’ fake mos’ times 
to make it easy f’r him.” McGraw dived into his pocket 
and fished out a couple of ripe and juicily—covered 
bloods. “I got him them on’y ’sevenin’. That Ruby 
Rob feller sure made a hit wit him. Seems like”—he 
turned them over in his great hand despondently—“seems 
like he ain’ gonna git ’em now. That sure seems a pity.’ 

The Honourable Bill held out his hand: his voice came 
suspiciously husky when he spoke. “I’ll give them to 
him,” he said abruptly. 

Mr. McGraw’s face lit up, then shadowed slightly. 
“Why, sure,” he said. “They’ll—-they’ll mebbe please 
him from his Uncle Bill—mebbe more n fr’m me. He s 
pow’ful fon’ a youse.” 





332 


THE BIG HEART 


Blakeley gripped his hand: ‘Til tell him you sent 
them, you damned fool, of course! I—I don’t forget 
what you’ve done for him,” he said huskily. “I wish 
you’d take some of this cursed money.” 

“I was dead fon’ a that kid,” answered McGraw simply. 
“An’ he wuz fon’ a me. I don’t figure to sell that feelin’ 
f’r no money.” 

“No,” said the Honourable Bill. “His mother—” 

“Say,” flashed McGraw, with a sudden frown. “Hees 
Maw the Countess. They ain’ nuttin’ in passin’ th’ word 
when a guy’s croakin’. Howarth stiffed her husban’ in 
Texas that time. Sure thing. That Hammerden job 
wuz all a frame-up. You get him before he croaks, he’ll 
mebbe spiel. That’s how it goes anyhow. I tol’ Dar- 
gan.” 

“We knew it,” exclaimed Paddy, “but had no proofs.” 

“That guy’ll die a quitter,” said McGraw positively. 
“He’ll squeal because lie’s frightened.” 

Mr. Dargan, followed by Mr. Dobson, pushed into the 
room. 

“There’s a train up to Town signalled now, McGraw,” 
said Dargan bluntly. “There’s your ticket. Beat it.” 
He tapped the ex-burglar upon the shoulder. “Beat it 
while your boots are good. Next time—” 

“Ain’ gonna be no nex’ time,” responded McGraw 
shortly. “Not if they’s any luck hangin’ round lookin’ 
f’r a job.” 

“Anything else?” asked Mr. Dobson sharply. “Be¬ 
cause time’s getting on.” 

“Dey’s one ting,” answered Mr. McGraw. “Them 
flat-foot Rubes pinched my gun. I wanna make a presen’ 
of it to a fren’ o’ mine. Aw! I don’t wan’ it,” he 
laughed, as Mr. Dobson glanced with dubious inquiry 
towards his New York confrere . “Y’ don’ have to worry 

about me.” 



EXIT JEREMIAH McGRAW 


333 


“Let him have it/’ said Mr. Dargan. “If he pulls 
any rough, I'll drop him like a stone. Get me, McGraw?” 

“You’re the smart Alec, Dargan,” grinned the threat¬ 
ened one. 

“Can’t afford to take chances with a bright little soul 
like you, Jerry,” responded Mr. Dargan, with an answer¬ 
ing grin.. 

“Give it to him,” ordered Mr. McGraw, when the auto¬ 
matic was produced, nodding towards the Honourable 
Bill. 

Mr. Blakeley took the deadly little gun wonderingly. 

“When youse done wit’ her t’night,” went on Mr. 
McGraw with great distinctness, “—an’ I don’ reckon 
them dagoes’ll put up much kick when youse git roiuT 
’em—but when the rough-house is over, you strip her an’ 
make her a presen’ to his Earldom from his pal, Jerry 
McGraw. He was sure took wit’ that lil’ gun he was, 
what he won' never git a better no place, nohow. Tell 
him that I says, I gotta go way, an’ jes’ ta remin’ him 
sometimes like . . .” 

He broke off suddenly. Mr. Courtenay blew his nose 
loudly. 

“You say to that kid,” he went on determinedly, “that 
Jerry McGraw sen’s him word he’s dead square on the 
par veil! Get it?” 

“Can’t say I do,” stammered the Honourable Bill. 

“What’s it mean?” demanded Dargan. 

“Something youse never heard about,” answered Mr. 
McGraw sarcastically, “but he knows. You tell him what 
I says—on the parr ell! S’long!” 

The train ran in. McGraw stepped into an empty 
carriage and stood at the doorway. Mr. Dobson sped 
the departing one by beckoning the guard and having 
him locked in. 

“Not to leave the train this side of London,” he ordered. 


334 


THE BIG HEART 


“Good-bye,” said the Honourable Bill, suddenly thrust¬ 
ing a hand through the window, “and good luck.” 

“Don’t forgit, Uncle Bill,” whispered McGraw, “the 
parr ell! That’s the dope—the parrell.” 

“I’ll not forget,” assured Mr. Blakeley. “And any 
time in trouble, come to me.” 

“Forgit it,” answered Mr. McGraw abruptly. 

“Or me!” cried Paddy. “Thank ye again—and the 
best of luck.” 

They dropped back. A sudden flash of remembrance 
overspread the face of the traveller. 

“Say!” he yelled. “I near forgot! That guy what he 
brung in last!” 

“The Major?” howled back Paddy, running alongside. 

“Mebbe!” shouted McGraw. “He was all right when 
I left; but Levigne’s dead sore on things. Look first go 
in the cellar under the kitchen floor—and look rapid or 
the rats’ll get him. There’s a ring to the trap.” 

“Right!” bellowed Paddy. 

They were standing on the platform, watching the tail 
of the train swing round a curve, when a cynical laugh 
at their backs brought them around quickly. 

“I reckon that reformed guy’s stung you two like a lil’ 
ol’ rock scorpion,” he grinned. 

For answer Mr. Blakeley slowly took from his pocket 
a folded cheque, which he opened, exhibited to Mr. 
Dargan’s gaze, then slowly tore to a thousand frag¬ 
ments. 

“Not one penny!” he answered shortly. 

Upon the other side of him, Mr. Courtenay exhibited 
a packet of brand-new Bank of England notes. 

“There’s a hundred pounds there,” he informed the 
staring detective indignantly. “Not one cent would he 
touch. Not one.” 


EXIT JEREMIAH McGRAW 


335 


Mr. Dargan lifted his hat and scratched his head 
blankly. 

“He’s got me dreamin’,” he said slowly. “And what 
the blazes did he mean by that ‘parrell’? That’s a new 
one on me.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII: Which puts, as Mr. Bowes- 
Chevington would Remark, the bally Lid on it 

4 6 T) ONNY,” whispered little Miss Hammerden, 
twitching at the shoulder of her companion, who 
was fitfully sleeping. “Ronny! Wake up! Quickly!” 

She slipped back to the position she had occupied for 
a long time; kneeling upon a cushion by the window, her 
chin upon the sill, peering out into the brilliant silver of 
the moonlit night, dreaming, with wide-awake eyes. 

How long she had been in this position little Miss Ham¬ 
merden could not have said; it seemed many hours since 
their genial custodian, McGraw, had waved a friendly 
hand to them and departed through the great gates into 
the road. She had heard him talking for a moment or 
two with the man who was watching at the gate; and 
later the sentry came back to the house, leaving the huge, 
ferocious black brute who snarled and growled with slav¬ 
ering lips and bloodshot eyes at every shadow, to range 
the garden alone. 

Then she and Ronny had undressed and made ready 
for bed; the little Earl had come in for a few moments, 
to bid them good-night as usual; then he too had retired, 
and another weary, suspense-laden day had drawn nearly 
to its close. 

For a long time the girls had lain and talked. Below, 
they could hear the faint rising and falling of the Italian 
voices; but quiet and subdued, as though some menace 
was hanging over this ill-omened house. 

Ever since the shooting of Howarth had this prevailed. 

McGraw had told them in a whisper, hidden from the 

336 


THE BALLY LID ON IT 


337 


boy, that the half-breed was surely dying; an eventuation 
for which he evinced not the slightest shadow of regret. 

But this hushedness, after the noisy jabber and quarrel¬ 
ling, seemed strange—in some way sinister; though 
McGraw had assured them they had nothing to fear. At 
times they could hear stealthy steps passing and re-passing 
their door—always with muffled whispers that spoke elo¬ 
quently of some unexpected mishap to the plans of their 
captors. From the girl, Netta, they gleaned the infor¬ 
mation, whispered furtively behind closed doors, that 
the man Poltara had gone about some business, and had 
not returned. It was thought he had been taken by the 
police and had implicated the others. 

The news gave the two girls hope, but as the long day 
dragged its way through without happening, the hope 
died slowly away, giving place to unutterable weariness. 

Yet the little Penelope, for all her weariness of flesh 
and spirit, could not sleep. Her companion had dozed 
off, with little sighs and starts that told plainly of her 
nervous condition. Indeed, since the horror of the half- 
breed’s last attempt upon them and its tragic culmination, 
the life seemed to have died completely from her shad¬ 
owed eyes. 

Little Miss Hammerden, tossing restlessly and sleep- 
lessly by her side, was wrapped in her own thoughts, and 
clothed in her own waking dreams. She could not sleep, 
so slipped from that great bed to her place by the window, 
to dream waking—since it was denied her to dream in 
sleep—and in her dreams the figure of Mr. Courtenay 
held great prominence. 

And then, with a sudden start, she saw something— 
or thought she had seen something—in the deep shadows 
of the old garden; something that stung her into tense, 
watching alertness. All around the house from their 
window lay a bare open patch—a patch that in the moon- 


338 


THE BIG HEART 


light stood bright and clear as day, and across which no 
living thing could have moved without instant detection. 
It was bordered by a heavy growth of shrubs; shrubs so 
neglected and uncared for that they had grown into 
straggling young trees. Beyond these were the dark 
shadows of an irregular old orchard in which, even in the 
moonlight, nothing was discernible. 

But in the fringe at the edge of the moonlit space 
Miss Hammerden had, in the eye-flash of a second, 
caught a glimpse of something that looked short, and 
squat, and white, and moved. In the next second the 
object was drawn back—vanished from her sight. A 
moment later she could have sworn, peering at the bushes 
with aching eyes, that a whisper—a sharp whisper of 
restraint—reached her straining ears. 

It was then that she had roused her friend. 

“What is it?” asked Veronica, sitting up quickly and 
speaking in a frightened whisper. 

“Ssh!” whispered back the little watcher. “It’s nothing 
to be frightened of. Slip on your clothes and come here. 
I believe they’ve found us! Oh, Ronny, I believe they 
have at last !” 

Trembling with excitement, the elder girl slipped from 
the bed, dressed as well as the darkness and her shaking 
hands would permit, and knelt beside the little Penelope. 

“In there,” whispered Miss Hammerden, “there is 
something hidden—something white. I am sure of it. 
Watch while I dress.” 

In a very few moments Penelope had robed herself and 
slipped in to startle the little Earl with her news; then the 
trio crept to the window and watched with bated breath¬ 
ing for what should happen. 

“There is something there, Miss Hammerden,” whis¬ 
pered his lordship; “something white and moving. I can 
see it distinctly.” 


THE BALLY LID ON IT 


339 


For some moments nothing stirred, and then slowly 
and in a tense silence, the drama began to unfold itself 
before the eyes of the hidden watchers. From around 
the back corner of the house came lurching, with its 
slavering, heavy, panting breathing, the great boarhound 
that had so many times stared malevolently up at their 
window, licking at its great red jowls menacingly. Across 
the white moonlit space it moved, casting a deep black 
shadow. Suddenly it stopped; stood with lifted head, 
sniffing noisily. Its suspicions were unquestionably 
aroused. 

“Look!” whispered his lordship. “Oh, look! that’s 
the white thing!” 

From out of the shadow, walking very quietly and 
sedately, with a curious rigid action, as though he were 
stepping delicately over breakables, came the big white 
bull-terrier. 

“It’s Punch!” gasped Miss Schornhurst brokenly. 
“Look, Penny! Old Punch! Oh, they’ve found us! 
Thank God! Thank God!” 

The white dog moved to within three feet of his gi¬ 
gantic antagonist, who, though fiercely growling, did not 
bark. From the bull-terrier came no sound whatever. 
Slowly, and still with his curious mincing step, the white 
dog bore to the right—his head turned always towards 
the menacing bulk that snarlingly watched him. For a 
second he stood still, dropping his powerful sinew-laden 
hocks slightly, his fore-legs so tensely rigid that they 
trembled with the contraction of the muscles. Then, 
with warning, he sprang, flashing past the big dog’s throat 
with a terrible snap of the jaws. The boarhound tossed 
his head in sudden nervousness, and shifted quickly. 
The speed of his move saved him; but when he lowered 
his great head, the white upon his jaws was flecked with 
red, where the bull-terrier s teeth had ripped across his 


340 


THE BIG HEART 


lower jaw. In the second the attacker touched the ground 
he spun almost in the air, landing on four feet, facing his 
opponent, and poised. 

“Steady, ye ould fool!” came a well-loved whisper to 
the trembling little Penelope’s ear. 

“Oh, Paddy!” she whispered. “Oh, Paddy!” 

“Let him be,” hissed a strange voice. “He’s got it 
on that big boob all the time.” 

Old Punch had crouched slightly for his second spring, 
when, as if in answer to the adjuration of his Great 
One, he suddenly appeared to change his tactics; and 
slowly, with his legs set well under him, lay down before 
the menacing bulk that glared with bloodshot, nervous 
eyes upon him. 

“That’s clever,” hissed the strange voice again. “That 
dog fights with his brains.” 

Instantly he was down the great brute sprang at him. 
In a flash Old Punch met him, half-rising from the 
ground; and his iron jaws closed upon the boarhound’s 
neck, close by its conjunction with the shoulder. There 
was no long hair upon the great hound to impede and 
choke, and the steel jaws of the bull-terrier shut down 
like an unshakeable vice. Instantly the boarhound, of 
his mighty strength, threw his head and neck up and 
dashed the smaller dog to the ground with a wicked thud; 
again and yet again; clawing at him with great fore-paws; 
but the bull-terrier was still clinging—only death would 
break Old Punch’s hold. 

“Got cha!” ejaculated the strange voice triumphantly. 

“He’ll be killed,” came from a very perturbed middle- 
aged voice. 

“A hundred dollars to a boot-button, Joe,” answered 
the other excitedly. “No dog breathing’s goin’ ta kill 
that Punch fellow now he’s got that hold.” 

“Hold him, boy,” came in Paddy’s whisper again; and 


THE BALLY LID ON IT 


341 


the bull-terrier shook and worried at the throat of his 
great opponent, seeking a higher grip. 

Then, across the moonlit space they watched the grey- 
clad figure of Mr. Courtenay slip and wriggle on elbows 
and prone body across into the shadow of the house-wall 
and disappear. An old “No Man’s Land” trick. Had 
he known he was being watched by a certain lovely pair 
of glistening eyes, Mr. Courtenay would doubtless have 
put more style, more elegance into the job; as it was, 
speed was his object, and he attained it. 

Almost at the same moment, a long figure appeared 
from a tangle of over-grown shrubs, slid with amazing 
celerity across the grass, and disappeared to the front of 
the building. Old “Darwin” Blakeley had been an un¬ 
beatable hand at these midnight stunts in the old days, and 
there was some style about him. As Mr. Dargan put it 
—“some class.” 

“That’s my uncle!” hissed his lordship, frenziedly 
shaking the unnecessary imformation into his fair com¬ 
panions with considerable violence. “That’s Uncle Bill 
—now they’ll cop it!” he concluded plebeianly, but with 
tremendous satisfaction. 

Upon the grass beneath them the silent battle waged 
on to its approaching end. The great boarhound, wearied 
with his futile attempts to dash the clinging white dog 
from his grip, and instinctively sensed that lie was in 
battle with a killer —a dog who knew but one end to a 
fight, go which way it might, once he had started. He 
was growing weak, and with weakness came fear. He 
had ceased to dash about, and was trying vainly to drag 
the smaller dog back towards the corner from whence he 
had come; but the sixty-pound weight body, braced by 
iron hind legs, set firmly now to the ground, was holding 
him. Gradually the foam-beslavered head was coming 
lower, and with each inch the bull-terrier’s grip slipped 


342 


THE BIG HEART 


nearer the vital point he was fighting for, the great jug¬ 
ular at the throat. Once the boarhound gave a frightened 
whine and one last mighty swing to dislodge this enemy 
that was fast paralysing him; then tottered and stumbled. 

In a second Old Punch shifted his hold and got in 
under the throat—once again the huge boarhound strug¬ 
gled to his feet, shaking on his great forelegs, then 
staggered to one side and fell. With a great convulsive 
shiver he rolled limply over; the white dog gave one jerk¬ 
ing, worrying gnaw at his throat, then stood back. His 
job in the night’s work was done—and done well. His 
face and tongue were very red as he stood there panting. 

They watched a burly man cross the space quickly, 
calling to the dog. Two lithe shadows swept quickly 
after him, and a moment later a soft hail came from the 
edge of the slimy pool beneath their window. 

His lordship pushed his small head over the sill. 

‘‘Why,” he whispered excitedly, “it’s Clamper—my 
uncle's man, you know. Good old Clamper! How are 
you, Clamper?” he hissed to the form below. 

“A. i.,” responded Mr. Clamper sibilantly. “An’ ’ow’s 
your lordship?” 

“Ripping,” answered the Earl. “I’m protecting the 
ladies.” 

“That’s the stuff,” whispered Mr. Clamper. “Stand 
by, your lordship, to catch the end of a line,” he ordered. 
“Pull it in and tie it to the bed-leg. I’ll be wiv y’ in two 
ticks.” 

“Splendid chap, Clamper,” informed his lordship as 
they hauled in upon a line and later a stoutish rope which, 
in accordance with Mr. Clamper’s instructions, was se¬ 
curely fastened to the leg of the heavy bedstead. “Splen¬ 
did fellow. He’s been all sorts of a convict. A mur¬ 
derer I believe —but I wouldn’t be sure. Uncle Bill loves 
Clamper!” 


THE BALLY LID ON IT 


343 


This inspiring description of that gentleman’s qualities 
had barely concluded when the ex-delinquent appeared 
up the rope with an agility that shed light upon his former 
profession, and, hanging on to the sill with one hand, 
gravely saluted the Earl and his lady companions with 
the other. His appearance, cropped-headed and bat-eared, 
lent considerable credence to his small lordship’s hurried 
epitome of the visitor’s lurid past. 

“ ’Evenin’, your lordship—an’ ladies,” said Mr. 
Clamper politely, hopping the sill with the easiness of 
one well-used to negotiating such obstacles. “There’s 
another gent cornin’ up in reinforcements, if you ’ave 
no objection.” 

None being forthcoming, Mr. Clamper went through 
a performance of some steadying evolution with his rope. 
An extremely languid voice halfway up the wall requested 
more care upon his part if he did not wish the entire 
building and human contents to “click for it.” 

In due course the head of the complainer appeared, and 
an extremely vacant-looking young gentleman, with scru¬ 
pulously parted hair and wearing a monocle, beamed upon 
them. Handing Clamper a small bundle, which that 
gentleman took and deposited away in safety with exceed¬ 
ing gingerness, he vaulted into the room with an agility 
nearly equal to the professional touch exhibited by Mr. 
Clamper. 

“How d’ye do?” he said, with a little bow. “Funny 
time to introduce oneself, but can’t be helped. My 
name’s Bowes-Chevington. Don’t know just what I am 
in this picnic,” he grinned, “but I’ve brought a cargo of 
old Mills that’ll earn me a reputation. Paddy’s at the 
back door, Bill’s at the front, Jimmy Carrington’s stran¬ 
gling the bloke at the front gate, and—and there’s about 
two tons of policemen all round the place. Clamper and 
I are —I dunno just what we are—but I expect we’ll make 


344 


THE BIG HEART 


a bit of a stir before we’ve done. How about the door?” 

“It’s locked,” informed the Earl; “and so’s mine.” 

“Ah!” said Mr. Bowes-Chevington, “this’ll be job No. 
i. for you, Clamper.” 

“Matter of two minutes,” announced that gentleman, 
taking from his pocket a small roll of felt—not at all 
unlike the burglar’s “kit” carried by Mr. Carrington upon 
the night of his incarceration in Vine Street—and kneel¬ 
ing before the offending door, reduced the lock to impo¬ 
tence with great celerity. 

“There y’are, your lordship,” whispered Clamper with 
honest pride. “That’s ’ow we doos it.” 

“Splendid,” admired his lordship ungrudgingly. “You 
must have been a very great burglar, Clamper.” 

“None so dusty,” admitted Mr. Clamper modestly. 

Mr. Bowes-Chevington, having made some mysterious 
adjustments upon his bag of “pretties,” as he called them, 
he and the last of the great cracksmen stole forth upon a 
stealthy voyage of discovery. 

“I shouldn’t come out of this room,” he advised before 
departure, “until some one comes for you.” 

At the rear of the house, Paddy Courtenay found an 
open window through which, in little groups of three 
and four earnestly engaged in discussion, he gained his 
first view of the unhallowed band. Fifteen altogether he 
counted; all Italians—bar the clean-shaven man; and a 
bright little lot of merchants they looked into the bargain. 

A few minutes later he was joined by Mr. Blakeley, 
who, having reconnoitred at the front, had worked his 
way round to where Mr. Courtenay was engaged in count¬ 
ing, and generally appraising, the fighting strength of the 
enemy. 

“Front door oak; windows barred,” informed the Hon¬ 
ourable Bill. “This looks our way.” 

“If only B.-C. and Clamper can stop them heading 


THE BALLY LID ON IT 


345 


into other parts of the house when we start,” agreed 
Paddy. “Let’s try the back door.” 

They did: to find it of solid oak slabs, well-nigh im¬ 
pregnable. A sudden shooting of the bolt sent them 
diving into an adjacent greenhouse. A young woman, 
very Italian in appearance, her dark eyes red and swollen 
with weeping, came out. 

“She mustn’t go back,” muttered Paddy under his 
breath. 

“Where?” mouthed Blakeley silently. 

“There’s a loose box across the yard. She’ll be out 
of the way of it there.” 

The Italian girl had just filled a pail of water when 
they pounced upon her. The scream she uttered was 
stifled in her throat by Mr. Blakeley’s great paw, and in 
five and twenty seconds she was lying, trussed hand and 
foot, upon some straw in the loose box. 

“Now ye’ll be all right there,” said Mr. Courtenay. 
“No one will harm you, an’ we’ll see to you when we’ve 
finished.” 

Back to the door of the kitchen they crept and tried 
it carefully. It was barred again. 

“They’re on the alert,” muttered the Honourable Bill; 
“expecting trouble and taking no chances.” 

They returned to their window, to be joined by Messrs. 
Dargan and Dobson, who had worked their way carefully 
around. Mr. Ferriby, to his intense disgust, had been 
left in charge of the motors. 

“That door’s the way,” growled Mr. Dargan. “They’ll 
pick us off through this window as fast as we come at it.” 

“There’s no earthly hope there,” answered Paddy; 
“it’s as strong as a gaol.” 

“For the love of Mike!” hissed Mr. Dargan suddenly, 
seizing Paddy by the arm, “look at that idiot!” 

Following the gaze of the excited American, he beheld 


346 


THE BIG HEART 


the vision of that amazing lunatic, Mr. Bowes-Cheving-' 
ton, coming leisurely down the staircase. In each hand 
ostentatiously dangled a Mills’ hand-grenade. He was 
closely followed by Mr. Clamper, who appeared to be 
loaded with a whole arsenal of those deadly instuments 
of warfare. Apparently their advent had so far been 
unnoticed by the foreign gentlemen still deep in their 
various discussions. 

Patrick, catching the eye of the intrepid grenadier, 
tick-tacked violently at the back door. Mr. Bowes-Chev- 
ington nodded, and conveyed in excellent sign-language 
that he comprehended. 

Then, to the amazement of the foreign gentry, and still 
more of the clean-shaven man who stared at him aghast, 
he walked calmly into the middle of the kitchen, and in 
clear, bored, but extremely succinct tones announced his 
immediate intention of blowing the whole collection sky- 
high- 

Mr. Clamper slipped behind him to the door, dropped 
the bolt and flung it open; an invitation speedily accepted 
by the onlookers, who, revolvers in hand, were confront¬ 
ing the still paralysed crew before there had been time 
to make any attempt at attack. 

From one man a shot came quickly: it shaved the ear 
of the New York detective and sank into the wall behind. 
Twice Dargan’s gun barked out, and on the second Mr. 
Derrick H. Levigne swayed slightly, gave an apologetic 
little cough, and fell face-downwards to the floor. 

“Any more here want it?” inquired Mr. Dargan, his 
eyes gleaming wickedly. 

There was no reply from the herded Italians. The 
sight of Mr. Mills’ little inventions had taken all the 
sting out of them. They were not in anyway to their 
palate. 

“Very well, then,” said Mr. Dobson, with a brisk, busi- 


THE BALLY LID ON IT 


347 


ness-like air, blowing a whistle; “we’ll round this lot up.” 

Jus’ a minute, ’ uttered a weak, husky voice from a 
doorway opening into the kitchen. “I got somethin’ 
t’say before . . 

They turned quickly, to see, clinging to the door-lintel, 
a tall and gaunt-framed, haggard-eyed wraith—the half- 
breed, Bart Howarth. 

Dargan half raised his gun to cover him, but quickly 
lowered it again; there was no need; the man, as McGraw 
had informed them, was surely at the last gasp. 

Nothing but the naked terror of death staring plainly 
from his eyes gave him the strength to keep up. The 
effort at movement had re-opened a wound at his neck, 
and blood trickled down his once-powerful neck. He 
looked at Dargan and laughed. 

“Too late for that,” he sneered. “I’m all in.” 

He lurched half-falling to the table, fell into a chair, 
and leaned back, gasping heavily, the pallor of his face 
deathly, even under his brown skin. 

“Where’s Lou?” he asked pantingly. “My wife?” 

“I’ve got her,” answered Dargan. “And the kid.” 

The dying man nodded slowly; then pulled himself to¬ 
gether with a great effort. “They got nottin’ to do with 
things,” he gasped. “Lou was dead against—I made her. 
Let her go!” 

Mr. Dargan eyed him narrowly. His face, as the man 
watched it anxiously, grew harder. 

“I might,” he said slowly. “At a price.” 

“What’s the price?” panted the fast-sinking man. 
“Say—quick!” 

“Who killed Eric Royal?” demanded Dargan bluntly. 

“Me,” answered the half-breed. “Me—curse him!— 
for what he done to—to Lona.” 

“And Haybridge?” pressed the detective. “Had he 
anything to do with it?” 


348 


THE BIG HEART 


“No,” came the answer. “I put it—on him—because 
once he beat—beat me up. I—” He stopped and 
wheezed heavily—“I done it—alone.” 

Dargan looked at Mr. Dobson, and from him around 
the room. 

“You heard that?” he said. “Your evidence may be 
wanted.” 

Mr. Dobson wrote hurriedly in his eternal black pocket- 
book, tore out the page and placed it with a pencil on the 
table by the dying half-breed. 

“Sign that,” said Mr. Dobson, constitutional to the last. 

The half-breed took the pencil in his nerveless fingers 
and with a great effort managed a scrawl. Mr. Dobson 
witnessed it and handed the pencil to Mr. Courtenay. 

“Witness that,” he instructed, and in a dazed sort of 
way Patrick did as he was bid. 

“Now we’re all in order,” said Mr. Dobson perfunc¬ 
torily. “As for your wife, she—” 

He stopped suddenly. Upon the face of the half-breed 
was a curious, sneering grin; and from the eyes that 
stared back into Mr. Dobson’s the light had passed for 
ever. 

“What about old Gal?” demanded Mr. Bowes-Cheving- 
ton suddenly. “They’ve got him somewhere about.” 

“The Lord forgive me!” uttered Mr. Courtenay in 
dismay. “I forgettin’ all about him! There—there’s 
the ring of the trap, as McGraw told us.” 

They found the Major, bound hand and foot and 
gagged. With the first flash of light they saw around 
him a swarming horde of great black rats, which retreated 
sullenly, and vanished back into their holes. 

The Major was, as he said, very nearly all in; but the 
language he chose to express suitable joy at his release was 
such as cannot be here recorded,—What the little missus 



THE BALLY LID ON IT 


349 


and the kids would have thought of it Heaven alone 
knows. 

“Paddy,” said the little Penelope, clinging to him, 
“you’ll never leave me alone again! Never—not for a 
moment!” 

“I will not that!” assured Mr. Courtenay, stroking the 
soft golden hair at his shoulder fondly. “We’ll be mar¬ 
ried the first thing in the morning.” 

“In the morning!” echoed Penelope, wide-eyed. “But 
—but you’d have to have a licence for that!” 

“I have it,” announced Patrick grandly. “I’ve had it 
for days. The only crumb of comfort that’s come to me 
has been sitting in me bed, reading it to myself aloud.” 

“Bed!” said the little Golden-head reproachfully. 
“Do you mean to say you’ve been able to sleep while— 
while I’ve been gone? Oh, Paddy!” 

“Darling,” answered Paddy, with a solemnity which 
admitted of no doubt, “I’ve not had the clothes from me 
back—except to change them—from the minute I saw 
ye last.” 

In the next room—the prison-house of his small lord- 
ship of Racedene—a couple stood by the window in close, 
breathless silence. 

Upon the face of the ugly man was the yearning light 
that shines alone from the soul; and in the velvet eyes of 
the girl who strained him to her shone the deeps of a 
glowing pool. 

Neither, in the silent happiness that held them thralled, 
took note of a small figure who came and stood in the 
doorway, hesitated, and then turned soundlessly away. 

“Oh, dear!” he sighed forlornly. “Still at it! It’s 
very trying.” 


EPILOGUE 


6 * T WONDER,” inquired the Earl of Racedene mus- 
ingly of his Aunt Ronny, “what people want to 
get married for?” 

“Because they love one another, dear,” answered the 
somewhat startled Veronica gently. 

“Oh!” said his lordship thoughtfully. “Is that it?” 

He strolled across to a window and gazed out moodily. 
It had been the occasion of his birthday two days before, 
and he was spending that festival in Town with his 
Uncle Bill. All the morning had his lordship exhibited 
restless tendencies: something there was that was preying 
upon his youthful mind; but what no one had so far 
been able to discover. He glanced again at his watch, 
a thing he had done religiously every ten minutes or less 
since breakfast. Time, for some extraordinary reason, 
appeared to be hanging heavily upon his lordship’s hands. 
Unquestionably, thought the Honourable Mrs. Bill, 
something was intriguing him. 

“Is that,” he asked suddenly, “why Mother is going 
to marry Mr. Hammerden?” 

“Yes, dear,” answered the tender-hearted Veronica. 
“You’re glad of that, aren’t you? Uncle Bill is,” she 
added a trifle anxiously. 

“Oh, I like Mr. Hammerden,” answered the Earl 
quickly, “and I think Mrs. Paddy’s a dear. I’ll be very 
glad to have them as relations. And Mr. Hammerden’s 
very kind about—about the place. He’s insisted upon 
clearing all the debts off, Mother told me.” 

“He is very fond of you both,” said Veronica softly. 

“Seems funny, though,” continued his lordship, re- 

350 


EPILOGUE 


351 


verting to his first topic, “why people who’ve already 
got some one to love, leave them and take up with some¬ 
body else.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Bill falteringly. 

“Like you had Mr. and Mrs. Schornhurst,” went on 
the young searcher into these difficult matters, “and Mrs. 
Paddy had her father, and Mother had me. Of course,” 
he added quickly, “I can understand any one wanting to 
have Uncle Bill by them always. I should myself.” 

“It’s very difficult to explain, dear,” timidly began the 
selected of the preax chevalier mentioned. 

“And, of course, Paddy’s a grand fellow and all that; 
but it seems strange to me and—it seems a bit—a bit—” 
He broke off with a little sigh, and again consulted with 
his timepiece. 

His newly-related aunt watched him with some anxiety. 

“Will Mr. Schornhurst be coming today?” inquired 
his lordship. 

“He’s here,” answered the Honourable Mrs. Bill. 
“Did you want to speak to him?” 

“I’d be very glad if—if he’d advise me over some¬ 
thing,” replied his lordship. “Something that’s worry¬ 
ing me.” 

Veronica rose quickly and looked at her nephew 
strangely. “Why, of course he will,” she said. 
“Wouldn’t you sooner mention it to Uncle Bill?” she in¬ 
quired diffidently. 

“No,” replied the Earl with great promptitude. “It’s 
a secret from Uncle Bill—and—you’ll please not mention 
it to him—not until it’s done. If you don’t mind,” he 
added wistfully. “He’ll be awful pleased, but I want it 
to be a surprise.” 

“I’ll see Father at once,” said the Honourable Mrs. 
Bill, and departed. Left alone, the Earl of Racedene 
drew from the pocket of his Eton coat a somewhat soiled 


352 


THE BIG HEART 


sheet of a third-rate sporting paper and studied it deeply; 
hurriedly returned it when the swish of his aunt’s skirts 
heralded her return. 

“Will you go to the library and see him?’’ she asked. 
“He’s there by himself.” 

His lordship thanked her and moved* to the door. 

“When Mother comes up today to take me back,” he 
observed, “I don’t want you to say anything to her. This 
is a secret between Mr. Schornhurst and me.” 

Jacob J., over his spectacles, regarded the slight figure 
that came across to him with some apprehension. The 
boy was worrying about something—Veronica had sensed 
it. The little magnate only hoped it was not the ap¬ 
proaching affair of his mother and big John Hammerden. 
Jacob J. devoutly hoped not; and felt that it behooved 
him, out of regard for all parties concerned, to walk very 
warily in this interview; very diplomatically and cau¬ 
tiously indeed. 

“I’m told,” he began slowly, “Ronny tells me, that 
you’d like to confer with me.” 

“Yes,” answered his lordship anxiously. “It’s—it’s 
fearfully important—and secret. You’re very wise, I 
know.” 

“Ha!” said Mr. Schornhurst. “I daresay, between 
us, we’ll manage to count how many beans make five. 
Proceed.” 

“For a long time,” began his lordship slowly, some¬ 
what at a loss how to open this portentous business, “I’ve 
been taking—having sent to me—a lot of papers from 
Mr. Abrahams’ shop.” 

“Boy,” observed Jacob, “we’re in the same bucket. 
Ever since he started he’s had a standing order for all 
the papers I could find out the names of.” 

“I’ve done as much as—as I could,” said his lordship. 

“That accounts, I suppose, for the sign he’s got framed 


EPILOGUE 


353 


in his window, with a crown and ‘Patronized by the 
Nobility’ on it. That guy’ll get there.” 

‘‘I suppose it does,” admitted the Earl dubiously. “It’s 
very embarrassing.” 

Mr. Schornhurst chuckled; pushed up his spectacles 
and took one of his tablets. 

“Were there,” went on his lordship, “were there any 
boxing papers among yours?” 

“I never saw any,” said Jacob J., “or anything half 
so lively.” 

The Earl of Racedene again dived into the pocket of his 
Eton jacket and produced his frowsy print. He handed 
it to Mr. Schornhurst, who replaced his spectacles and 
gravely read the paragraph indicated. 

“Ah,” he observed, with twinkling eyes, “and which of 
these two huskies are you inclined for backing?” 

“Do you know who that one is?” asked his lordship, 
earnestly, touching one of the names with his finger. 

“The Chicago Terror,” read Mr. Schornhurst. “No, 
I can’t say that up to now we’re acquainted.” 

“That’s the man who was so good to me,” announced 
the Earl triumphantly. “That’s my friend, Jerry Mc- 
Graw! I’ve found him, Mr. Dobson helped me; and oh, 
he’s been having a terrible time—half starving, Mr. 
Dobson says—but he’s gone straight all along. Oh, Mr. 
Schornhurst, I can’t leave my friend like that!” 

For what seemed an age to his small eagerly-waiting 
consultant, Jacob J. stared at the print before him; then 
lifted his head. 

“No, boy,” he said slowly, “you can’t. Nor I—nor 
any of us. We ll confer.” 

For a long time they consulted, whisperingly, seem¬ 
ingly arriving at some plan of action satisfactory to them 
both. When his lordship rose to go, he offered his hand, 
which the little magnate wrung heartily. 



354 


THE BIG HEART 


“I’m so glad I came to you, Mr. Schornhurst. ,, 

“Not more than I am, boy,” answered Jacob J. “I 
owe this feller more—more than I like to think about. 
You’ve got the right idea. Boy,” he went on slowly, 
laying an earnest hand upon the slight shoulder by him, 
“stand by your friend, and when his head’s down on his 
chest and the blur’s in his eyes, stand by him most of 
all.” 

There were some anxious people in the Honourable 
Mrs. Bill’s drawing-room that night when eleven o’clock 
had come and gone, and no sign of the curiously-assorted 
pair of revellers was forthcoming. 

“But where did they go?” asked the Countess of Race- 
dene anxiously. 

“I don’t know,” answered Aunt Ronny, clasping her 
hands plaintively. “They’ve been most frightfully mys¬ 
terious all day.” 

“They’ll be all right now,” assured Mr. Courtenay. 
“Who’s going to hurt the likes of them?” 

“Oh, Paddy,” said his small wife, “such dreadful 
things do occur.” 

“I’ll give ’em ten minutes, and then I’ll look for them,” 
decided the Honourable Bill. “Anything might have 
happened. You can’t . . 

He stopped; the voice of his small lordship rang 
through the hall, and he came galloping up the stairs, 
burst in upon them, and flung his arms around his 
mother; then, shaking with excitement, took the centre 
of the room. 

“We’ve brought a friend!" he announced excitedly. 
“Mr. Schornhurst and I; but I found him. And, oh, it’s 
been terrible tough for him, but he’s my friend, and it’s 
all over for him now!” 

With which amazing and ambiguous statement, his 


EPILOGUE 


355 


lordship ran to the door and opened it; and into the room, 
hat in hand, and the picture of timid nervousness, sidled 
Mr. Jeremiah McGraw. His face had been freshly bat¬ 
tered during the evenings effort at earning his daily 
bread—so much so that there was not a great deal recog¬ 
nizable about him; only the humorous blue eyes that still 
held their quiet twinkle at the corners, and spoke of the 
indomitable courage with which he had sustained the 
struggle. Behind him, peering over his tortoise-shells 
at everybody and chuckling inordinately, came the little 
figure of Mr. Jacob J. Schornhurst. 

“Jerry!’’ shouted the Honourable Bill, advancing with 
outstretched hand. 

“McGraw!” exclaimed Patrick in the same breath. 
“Where the deuce have you been?’’ 

“I bin on the parrell,” answered Mr. McGraw, some¬ 
what unsteadily. “Kinda tough sometimes, but I hel’ 
on tight.” 

“Man,” whispered the Honourable Bill fiercely, “ye 
look hungry!” 

“ ’S bin a tough line sometimes,” answered the bat¬ 
tered one, “but I stuck it like I sen’ the message to my 
pal.” 

His lordship, whispering frantically at his mother, 
propelled her forward; Mr. McGraw looked with a gasp 
at the hand held out to him by the beautiful lady with 
the shining eyes. 

“I am his mother,” she said softly, “and I thank you 
from the bottom of my heart.” 

“ ’Tain’t nuttin',” said Mr. McGraw jerkily. “ ’Tain’t 
nuttin’ what me an’ the kiddie—his Earldom—is . . .” 
lie stopped suddenly, with a strange, choking sound. 
His battered face worked spasmodically for a second, the 
blurring mist in his eyes plain for all to see, then turned 
his back quickly; his head sunk upon the great heaving 


356 


THE BIG HEART 


chest, his hands twitching convulsively at the old felt hat 
he carried. 

A little hand stole into his great gnarled fist, and a boy¬ 
ish voice strained to the breaking-point whispered to him. 
His lordship was putting into practice the golden ordina¬ 
tion of little Jacob J.—that when your friend’s head 
is on his chest and his eyes are blurred, then is the time 
to stand by him most of all. 

“Jerry!” whispered the Earl of Racedene, with misty 
eyes. 

“On the parrell I was, kid,” answered Mr. McGraw 
brokenly. “I was down an’ out, but I stuck on the parrell 
—honest t’ God!” 



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